


Renegade's Legacy: Ashes Lie the Same

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam and Dean take a case in Essex, Maryland, things quickly become complicated; hunters are being brutally murdered by a creature with a personal grudge against men in the profession--and against family. The brothers have nothing to fall back on but the weapon of their own unstable bond.<br/>If they can survive being hunted themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Sometimes, everything we do in life rests on a choice. It may not be a big choice—in fact, it may be the smallest thing you ever did. Like deciding to get a chicken taco instead of steak. Or making a left turn when you thought you were supposed to go right. Maybe you stumbled across somebody who changed your world forever.

 

So it’s possible there are a hundred different ways your life could go. And it all hangs on one little choice—or I guess it’s a series of little choices that all make us who we are. For better…or for worse.

 

After Sam got his soul back, after everything had happened and the dragons let loose The Mother of All, the Winchesters were sunk deep into the war in Heaven. A lot of lives were lost…and a lot of things changed.

 

But what if Sam and Dean had gotten there in time, and stopped the Dragons, and Mother had never gotten out?

 

What if something else had?

 

On November twenty-ninth, two-thousand eleven, Sam and Dean got a call from a woman named Nikki Walters. She was an old contact of their dad’s, out in upstate New York. When Mother escaped Purgatory, Sam and Dean didn’t take the case, because they had other things to think about. And a few weeks later, they found out the whole thing was a sham.

 

But what if they _had_ taken that case, instead of going to Rhode Island? Their lives would be totally different.

 

And that’s what this story’s about. This is what happened when Sam and Dean took a case in Essex, Maryland.

 

—Chuck

 


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean battle the Mother of All's chief dragoons - with consequences.

           

The tunnel was hot and stank of sweat, old excrement and the unattended earth.

            To say the girl was resisting them would be an understatement; at barely over five feet tall, she was putting up a fight that had the dragons grunting, hauling her by her elbows. Should have known better than to grab a girl on her way out from a judo class; still, they were bigger, outweighing her each by at least a hundred and fifty pounds. Her struggles were growing weaker.

            Good. The dragons were exhausted, and had been since the clash in the sewers. The men had been fair fighters and outstandingly hard to beat down. And the way they’d watched each other’s backs—even monsters of kin didn’t know that sort of loyalty.

            They were unnerved, more than they’d shown the girls, or each other. They needed to do their job, now. Before their enemies became a more serious threat.

            The edge of the pit yawned before them, a sulfuric chasm glinting red-yellow in the depths. The other dragon met them there, the incantation clutched in his fist, his brow furrowed angrily. “You’re both late.”

            “We’ve already heard that.” They chorused.

            The dragon at the pit’s edge nodded, accepting that. “I’ve already worked the spell. Throw her in.”

            The girl obviously didn’t miss the malice in his tone and the meaning and the way his eyes flashed toward her, and she renewed her struggles, snapping kicks toward them, bucking their hold. The dragon on her left arm torqued her elbow up behind her back, eliciting a cry of pain from her.

            “ _Hey_!”

            The furious snarl came from the mouth of the cave behind them. The dragons turned, the girl still pinned tightly to their sides.

            The man from the sewers stood behind them, the broken sword in his hand, his knuckles scuffed, holding the blade up and parallel to his wrist.

            “Let. Her. _Go_.”

 

 

            “I said, let her _go_!”

            Yeah, okay, yelling at dragons—probably not the best idea. Especially when he was still sporting an old-man limp from the last run-in with these guys. And they still looked pretty fresh for a fight.

            And—huh. Maybe a little nervous.

            The girl—she was definitely cute, figured that the monsters wanted her—stopped squirming and looked at him with wide eyes. Same thing the dragons were doing. Good. Keep the focus on him. Making time for everything else to fall into place.

            “Maybe I didn’t say this clear enough.” Dean growled. “Let the girl go, or I’ll skin your little scaly hides. How’s that sound?”

            The dragon who didn’t have a death-grip on the girl’s arm, shouldered to the front. “You couldn’t defeat my brothers before. And then you weren’t alone. What makes you think you’ll have any more luck _this_ time?”

            “Second time’s the charm.” Dean cracked.

            “No, this second time is your pure stupidity.”

            Dean’s mouth tipped down at the corners on a facial shrug. “The name’s Dean Winchester. Hunter. You mighta heard of me?” He prowled sideways across the narrow spit of rock sticking out over—pit to Purgatory, that was what Bobby had called it. They were finally here. “I don’t play smart. But I usually win.”

            “Obviously.” The dragon’s gaze tracked Dean suppressed, subtle limp. “Tell me, Dean Winchester, what is it you think you’re going to do?”

            “Stop you, for one thing.” Dean felt the heat of Purgatory’s mouth licking at his back when he stopped, putting himself between the dragons and the end of the outcrop. “Then I was thinking I’d go home and have some pie.”

            “Wrong again.” The dragon hissed; there was a high-pitched ripping sound as something black and leathery yanked free of the back of his shirt.

            _Wings_.

            “Holy, crap.” Dean muttered, watching the twelve, fifteen, twenty-foot wingspan stretching across the cave from wall-to-wall. The guy was getting taller.

            The girl screamed, and it wrenched Dean out of his shock.

            “Sam, _now_!”

            With the real sword in his hand, Sam dropped fluidly from his perch on the slab of rock over the tunnel entrance, landing on the dragon holding the girl’s left arm. Dean threw the plastic fake over the edge and dove beneath the snapping jaws of the fully-transformed dragon, barreling into the one Sam hadn’t killed yet and breaking his hold on the girl.

            “Run!” Dean hollered, and the girl ran, tripping on the slick stone and crashing into the wall.

            A cry of pain punctuated the roar of the dragon as it sprouted a tail, flinging Sam off the man he’d been tussling and pinning him to the wall; a jagged tine off the dragon’s tail speared through Sam’s shoulder.

            “ _Sammy_!” Dean kicked the human-form-dragon solid in the temple and leaped off of him, grabbing the dragon’s tail, pulling his gun out and shooting it.

            The bullet whizzed back off the dragon’s thick, hard scales, ricocheting through the cave spitting sparks. Dean ducked his head, then swiveled around, searching for the sword.

            It had skittered dangerously close to the edge, and the dragon Sam had been wrestling was getting back up, clutching a bleeding wound inside his elbow. Dean scrambled past him, grabbed the sword and lunged for the dragon’s tail.

            He was two seconds too late; it spread its wings in the cramped space and leaped, detaching Sam from the wall and dropping him into a crumbled heap.

            “Sam—Sammy!” Dean grabbed Sam’s forearm and dragged him to his feet.

            “I’m good, I’m fine. Get the dragon.” Sam spat through gritted teeth, clutching the puncture wound in his shoulder.

            Dean whirled and the guy was already there, coming at him swinging; Dean ducked the clumsy uppercut and kneed the guy in the jewels, dropping him. Sam grabbed the guy’s hair with his blood-soaked hand and punched him right in the nose, crushing cartilage. Dean winged past the guy and stabbed him in the back of the neck, then slid on his knees toward the guy he’d knocked unconscious, and finished him off, too.

            Wiping the sword on his knee, Dean looked over his shoulder.

            Sam was tentatively approaching the girl, who was clinging to the wall and staring at them wide-eyed. Even over the soft, distant rumbling beneath them, Dean heard his brother’s coaxing tone:

            “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. My brother and I, we’re not here to hurt you.”

            “What…was…that?” The girl’s teeth were chattering.

            Sam stopped, one hand outstretched, and from this angle Dean could see the smile twisting one half of his brother’s face. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

            A deafening roar split through the cave and Dean clamped a hand over the side of his head. The dragon swooped back over them, creating a whirlwind with its wings that shoved Dean back toward the tunnel entrance. He heard Sam yell something at the girl, and then her scream ripped through Dean’s eardrums. He spun up onto his feet as the dragon grabbed the girl by the back of her shirt, long teeth scissoring through, and lifted her off of the outcropping.

            “ _Dean_!” Sam’s eyes were fixed on the dragon’s massive scaly underbelly. “Gimmie the sword!”

            Dean threw it and Sam started running, eyes up, like he couldn’t even freaking _see_ the edge of the pit coming up fast with every stride of his too-long legs.

            “Sam, look out!”

            Stupid, stupid—

            Sam jumped anyway.

            The blade sank into the dragon’s skin just under its elbow—heart-shot.

            The dragon bellowed, the sound smacking Dean’s senses in a storm of bad breath and pain. He squinted, taking a step back, watching as the dragon folded its wings and started falling, taking the girl with it.

            Sam dropped, grabbed the sharp edge of the spit of rock and flung out his arm, reaching for the girl as she twisted past him—

            An eruption of flames rocked the cave as the dragon plummeted straight into Purgatory. Dean flattened himself as a jettison of white-hot energy shot for the roof, leaving a shrieking semi-silence behind it, swallowing down into a garbled shockwave that buckled the rocky walls on every side.

            Something red-and-black slithered out of the pit, flinging itself end-over-end up the walls. Dean, sitting flat, stared up at the thing as it clawed its way toward a pinprick of daylight in the roof overhead.

            For one second, when it stopped, Dean felt like a hundred eyes were staring at him, making his skin crawl and his hair stand on end.

            Total, absolute silence sucked down into the cave, and darkness swirled back into the pit as the door to Purgatory warped shut.

            Dean didn’t hesitate. Hauling onto his feet, he ran for the edge. “Sam!”

            His gray jacket almost totally lost in the darkness, Sam stirred; picked up his head, and then shifted, revealing the white dress, long dark hair of the girl the dragons had been trying to sacrifice.

            “Oh, thank God.” Dean slowed and stopped, passing a hand down his face, then looking more closely at Sam. He was bleeding all over himself, his hair was singed and he had burns all up the back of his hand.

But he’d risked that. To hang over the edge of freaking _Purgatory_ and save some girl he didn’t even know.

Yep. His soul was definitely back, shining right out of those puppy-dog eyes.

“Quit looking at me like that.” Sam mumbled, avoiding Dean’s gaze.

In spite of everything, Dean smirked. “You have that spell from the book we found?”

            Sam fished into his pocket with one hand, keeping the other tight around the girl, and handed Dean the scrap of paper.

            The chant sounded like a song, not exactly soothing but sort of peaceful. Sam sat up, eventually, the unconscious girl limp in his arms, and stared over the edge into the violent black depths below.

            When Dean finished the spell, there was a vivid but muted flash from below them, and that was it. Piece of cake.

            Dean sank down with his arms locked loosely around his knees, head bowed. “Dude. That was intense.”

            Sam let out a low breath. “Dean, what was that thing?”

            Dean swallowed, and shifted. “You saw it, too?”

            Sam nodded.

            Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and looked back up at the ceiling. “I dunno, Sammy.” He said, but the crawly feeling on his skin told him _something_ : “Evil.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

_November 29 th, 2011_

_Upstate New York_

 

“Admit it, Sammy. We’re lost.”

            Sam sighed, picked up his head and looked out the windshield, praying for patience. “Dean. We’re not lost. For the hundredth time. We are _not_. Lost.”

            “Yeah, could’ve fooled me.” Dean was gripping the steering wheel of the Impala hard, and he’d had a permanent glare carved onto his face for the last half hour. “You said we were lookin’ for some town called Clarksville, right?”

            “Yeah, that’s right.” Sam flipped the atlas over in his hands.

            “Then why the hell are we cruising back-ass of nowhere? I thought dad taught you how to read that crap.” Without looking up from the wheel, Dean reached over and hit the map with the back of his hand.

            Sam jerked it away. “Hey!” He shot his older brother a glare, but Dean’s expression didn’t do much other than to burn down the fuse of Sam’s own long-suffering temper. “You know, I didn’t pick this job, Dean. It’d be a lot easier if we were hunting some place that actually shows _up_ on a map.”

            “We go where the evil stuff is, Sam. Not like we got much of a choice.”

            “ _Really_ , Dean?” Sam folded the atlas in half. “The _only_ reason we took this job was because Nikki Walters asked us to.”

            “What do you want, Sam? She was scared, all right?” Dean looked at him sideways and Sam pulled his I-Can’t-Believe-You-Still-Think-You-Can-Wriggle-Out-Of-This look. Which earned him a You-Know-Me-Too-Well smile. “Okay, she was pretty smokin’, too. Not gonna argue with that.”

            “Yeah? You know she had the hots for dad, right?” Sam almost laughed at the look Dean was giving him now. “Dean, she’s old enough to be our _mom_.”

            “Seriously?” Dean shook his head. “Sam, that’s nasty.”

            “You’re the one who started hitting on her without asking.” Sam shrugged and opened the atlas again. “How else do you think she got dad’s number?”

            “Figured she was some kinda informant!” Dean shook it off like a cold chill. “That’s _gross_! I almost bought her a drink!”

            “Try asking next time.” Sam said mildly.

            Dean mumbled under his breath for a minute, then looked over at him again. “So, find Clarksville yet?”

            Sam snapped the atlas closed, prayed for more patience and then looked at his brother. “No. And the Food Faeries didn’t visit in the last ten minutes, so don’t even ask.”

            Dean hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “C’mon, Sam! I’m freaking starving! We can’t just keep driving forever!”

            “Last gas station was about an hour and a half back _that_ way.” Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You really feel like turning around?”

            They’d been following the dusty, winding back road in upstate New York for five hours. That they hadn’t seen more than a cluster of civilization every forty miles wasn’t unexpected; they’d visited New York enough times in their childhood to know that it wasn’t all industrial, busy-body heaven. In fact it didn’t look all that different from backwoods Kentucky or Indiana, except flatter. But after looking for the apparently nonexistent Clarksville for most of the day, tempers were flaring. And for the Winchester brothers, who more often than not were trapped in the narrow front seat of the Impala together, that was never a good thing.

            They’d been hunting together for six years now, what had begun as a weekend leave from law school for Sam becoming a permanent allocation when his girlfriend Jessica had been killed by a demon; the same demon that had murdered Sam’s mother the day Sam turned six months old.

Lately, Sam felt like everything that had happened to him spawned one way or another from that night: hunting, his father’s death, his own death at the hands of a demon’s pawn, the opening of the Devil’s Gate, the war between Heaven and Hell and his consequent misadventures as a Soulless husk of his former self. Then there had been the incidence with the dragons opening Purgatory, an attempt which Sam and Dean had caught in the nick of time. Unfortunately for Sam, that meant one hell of a shiner, and they’d been laid up for a week because of a hairline fracture on Dean’s arm that’d kept him clear of using firearms. Their first day back out on the road, they’d heard from Walters, hysterical and demanding that they meet her.

Which had led them to this case, this road, and Dean starting a fairly steady stream of swearwords under his breath.

            “All right, look, let’s just stop,” Sam said before Dean actually decided to turn the car around and make the last hour and a half of driving completely pointless. “Stretch our legs, get some fresh air, figure out our next move. Okay?”

            Dean’s response to that was to slam on the brakes, giving Sam some of the worst whiplash he’d had in a while. This from the paranormal hunter who found himself thrown against a wall by some spiritual force at least once a week.

            “I’m sick of chasing this, Sam.” Dean said, staring out the windshield at the cloud of dust the tires had coughed up.

            “What are you talking about? I thought you wanted a case.” Sam said. Dean looked away, out the window. “Dean, all the signs are there. This could be demonic. This is the first sign we’ve seen of demons since I—y’know, since I came back.”

            “Yeah, right.” Dean went for the radio.

            The annoying chirp of a cell-phone stopped him. Sam pulled out his Blackberry and Dean carded his hands back through his hair. “It’d better be the end of the freaking world,” he muttered.

            Sam gave him another look as he accepted the incoming call. “Hello?”

            “Sam?” The voice was warped by miles and miles of static. “It’s Bobby.”

            “Hey, Bobby.” Sam shouldered the door open and got out, Dean hopping out to follow him. The wind, arid, without a taste of humidity, and the entire world exploding in the brown, red and gold of late autumn, mirages shivering in the unseasonable warmth. Sam had forgotten how great New York looked at this time of year—especially when you could see it at under eighty-five miles an hour flashing by the shotgun window. “Found anything else about what those dragons wanted out of Purgatory?”

            “Nah, still going through that book you and your brother found. Sure woulda been helpful if you coulda found the page they tore out.”

“Well, we were kinda busy at the time, Bobby.” Sam pointed out with a trace of a smile. “It wasn’t exactly the time to play pick-pocket.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.” There was a minute of silence that was profoundly awkward. “How you holdin’ up, kid?”

            “Uh,” Sam paused, not really sure how to explain it. “I’m dealing.”

            “Yeah? What about Dean?”

            Sam leaned his elbows on the roof of the car and looked at his brother. Dean was giving him a classic impatient glare, but Sam wasn’t completely fooled by how normal that was. He’d seen a different side of Dean in the days since he’d been back. They’d stop for a beer and Dean wouldn’t give the women more than a cursory glance, like it was force of habit instead of real interest. And lately his brother hadn’t been able to listen to AC/DC without looking like someone had stabbed him in the gut. And he’d about thrown the remote through the television set in their last motel when Dracula had come on screen.

            “He’s fine.” Sam finally looked away. “What’s going on?”

            “Where you boys at?”

            “If you ask Dean, we’re back-ass of nowhere.” Sam said, which got a twitch of a smile out of Dean.

            “And according to you, high-and-mighty law student?”

            Sam paused. “Yeah, we’re back-ass of nowhere.”

            “You on a job?”

            “Maybe. Why?”

            “’Cause Rufus and me picked up on something on the east coast. Wondered if you boys might wanna check it out.”

            “Omens?” Sam asked, and Dean perked up.

            “No, nothin’ demonic, not s’far as we can tell, anyway.”

            “Well, that’s kinda what we’re chasing right now, Bobby.”

            “Omens? Where at?”

            “Clarksville, New York.” Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes.

            “Forget it, Sam.” Bobby said dismissively. “It’s your regular old ghost town, sure, but nothin’ major. Let me guess, Nikki Walters put you up to it?”

            “Yeah…how’d you know?”

            “Aw, me and Nikki and your old man go way back. She’d never miss a chance to put his sons through the ringer. Or send you boys off on some wild ghost-chase.”

            “Well, that’s great, Bobby.” Sam gave a helpless shrug, and Dean threw up his hands in an obvious I-Told-You-So gesture. “What’d you and Rufus find?”

            “Place called Essex, Maryland. Ever been there?”

            “I dunno.” Sam pulled the phone away from his ear. “Dean, we ever hunt in Essex?”

            “Nah, most of the jobs we get are right smack in the Midwest. I mean, we’ve been to Ilchester, but—”

            Sam glared. “Thanks for the reminder. Bobby, I don’t think we—”

            “I heard him.” Bobby sounded a little frustrated now. “My point is, there’s been mutterin’s of the supernatural from anywhere outside the Baltimore area all the way to the coast, but it’s sure as hell focused right around the Essex area.”

            “What’s so special about Essex?”

            “Beats me. Never been any kinda focal point for rituals, ghosts or spirits of any kind. No famous dead people buried there—hell, far as I can tell, their crime rate ain’t even that bad.”

            “But you and Rufus found _something_ ,” Sam prompted.

            “Yeah, you bet we did.” Bobby sounded like a man building up to the climax of a really good story, and not necessarily in a cheerful way. “Last six weeks, dead bodies’ve been turning up everywhere. Floatin’ in the bay, gettin’ turned up by construction crews. Coupla people found bones in their backyards.”

            “Sounds like a serial killer to me,” Sam said, and Dean leaned his hands on the top of the Impala and gave him a Get-Off-The-Phone-And-Fill-Me-In-Already look.

            “That’s what I thought at first. But Rufus dug a little deeper and Sam, let me tell you, this ain’t like _nothing_ I’ve ever heard before. Bodies turnin’ up from…” He trailed off. “It goes back a ways, Sam. All the way to the sixties and seventies.”

            “So? Some killers can make it that long without getting caught.”

            “Sam.” Bobby’s tone suggested the second shoe was about to drop. “Rufus and I ran background checks. Every single dead body is a hunter.”

            “ _What_?” Sam just about yelled. Dean rocked back on his heels, looking surprised and maybe a little nervous. Sam was usually the calm one; anything that set him off spelled trouble for Dean and probably anyone else in a twelve-mile radius.

            “I’m telling you, they’re all hunters, kid. Some of them went missing way back when your daddy was still in the Corps. Most of ’em I ain’t even heard of ’cept by word of mouth. And all of them went missing in—”

            “Let me guess. Maryland.” Sam ran a hand down his face.

            “Yup. Anywhere from Bethesda up north to Baltimore and Bel Air South. But all the bodies are turnin’ up _in_ Essex, no more’n a five-mile radius of each other. Local authorities aren’t sayin’ much, but we’ve got resources at the M.E.’s in Baltimore. Apparently they all died the same way.”

            “Something demonic?”

            “Not exactly.” Now he sounded uncomfortable, which, for Bobby, could only spell bad news. “Ripped apart inside’s more like it.”

            “Like something tore their hearts out?”

            “Think lower, Sam. And a little uglier.”

            He thought about it. Winced. “Are we talking _rape_ , Bobby?”

            “Whoa!” Dean said. “Okay, this _officially_ got weird!” He made a swipe over the roof for the phone and Sam stepped back. “Gimmie the damn phone, Sam!”

            Both Sam and Bobby ignored Dean’s demand. “I don’t know how else to explain it, Sam. Somethin’ got shoved up the back and messed things up inside those hunters. I tell ya, I’ve heard of some violent spirits, but this one takes the cake.”

            “Tell me about it.” Sam dodged another of Dean’s attempts to grab the Blackberry from his hand. “Look, Bobby, those hunters. Were they all—?”

            “All men?” Bobby finished. “Yeah, they were. Which is why I’ve got no doubt there’s some sorta vengeance in play, here. I’d bring Rufus down there and do it myself but…” He trailed off. “Figured you boys could use a case.”

            “Yeah.” Sam said, thoughts of what Castiel had told him about the year and a half his soulless body had been wreaking havoc topside lacing in with the horrific weight of guilt he still felt for the way he’d left Dean at the end of the Apocalypse—bloodied, two inches from death, and utterly alone in the world. He’d sworn to make amends, and a case, any case, was the perfect way to start. “No, we’ll handle this, Bobby. You and Rufus just take care of yourselves, all right?”

            “You bet. And Sam?”

            “Yeah?”

            “You boys be careful, would ya? Keep an eye on that idjit brother of yours. God knows where his head’s at, but it ain’t pretty. You know that.”

            “I’m trying. Thanks, Bobby.” Sam cut the call and caught Dean staring at him over the hood of the Impala. “Uh…what?”

            “Who’s raping who, Sam?”

            He cracked a smile at that. “Not really sure.”

            “Oh, well, that’s great. So where’s Bobby sendin’ us now?”

            “Essex.” Sam yanked the car door open. “Maryland.”

            “Awesome.” Dean slid his stocky frame into the driver’s seat. “You know there’s only like, five black guys in Maryland?”

            “Does it matter?”

            “Nah. Not really.” Dean smacked Sam on the shoulder with the folded atlas. “So, navigator? Navigate.”

            Sam unfolded the map against the dashboard and outlined the route with his eyes. It’d always been his lot in the hunting business, back when he’d been traveling with Dean and their father, John Winchester, in that rare window of time when they’d hunted as a single unit: the older men were in charge of driving and finding appropriate radio stations, and Sam was tasked with finding the quickest route to their destination. This became better known as finding the quickest way to end his own torture—backseat detail was about the most boring thing in the world. At least riding shotgun, he had a chance to talk to another living soul between states.

            But something good had come of it, admittedly: Sam could read a map faster than Dean could pick out a beautiful woman in a crowded bar.

            “Here, I got it.” Sam gestured to the map. “If we head to Albany, we can take Broadway to Interstate Eighty-Seven. That should take us straight down to Essex after it merges into Ninety-Five in Pennsylvania.”

            “That take us through downtown New York?”

            “Uh, just outside of it, actually.”

            “ _Fan_ tastic.” Dean said. “Buckle up, Sammy. We’re takin’ this all in one hit.”

            “Dean. We’ve already been driving for five and a half hours. When was the last time you slept, anyway?”

            “Doesn’t matter. I’m sick of runnin’ around out here. That Walters chick gave us bad directions, I swear.”

            “Yeah, Bobby said she had it in for us.” Sam folded the atlas and stuffed it in the glove compartment. “Look, let’s find a motel in Albany and stop for the night, all right? We’ll feel a lot better if we hit this with a clear head.”

            “Just point me in the right direction, Sam.”

            Sam watched the sunset for a minute, figuring it was probably better to argue this point with Dean once they were actually on the road and not just twisting their way through the back hills of New York State. “Just follow this road. It’s gotta end somewhere.”

            Dean pulled out and kept going, and he didn’t say anything until they flew past the sign announcing Clarksville, fifteen miles ahead. Dean drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel and looked at Sam.

            “Bobby said she was probably just pulling our leg.”

            To which Dean replied, very eloquently, “Son of a bitch.”

 

[R~L]

 

        They made good time, considering the hellacious traffic and lack of decent coffee and sleep. By the time they rolled into Bradshaw, Maryland a few hours before dawn, Sam’s nerves felt like livewires, and Dean was nursing a serious headache and a look like he was ready to murder someone.

            Bradshaw was the epitome of a sleepy town, the kind Sam would’ve appreciated if he hadn’t been blasting Bon Jovi just to keep his eyes open. The station was fading in and out with the last strains of “We Weren’t Born To Follow” and Dean was developing a semi-permanent twitch in one eye. It had been a good hour and a half since they’d heard a decent Zeppelin or Boston song, which was wreaking all kinds of hell on Dean’s naturally short temper.

            “Sam, if we don’t stop for coffee and some food, I swear to God I will strangle you with my bare hands.”

            Sam took that to heart.

            They fueled up the Impala and grabbed convenience store sandwiches and unholy amounts of over-caffeinated coffee before they hit the last stretch of road into Essex. By the time they reached the city limits, Dean at least looked wide-awake and was taking a decent look around.

            “This place doesn’t look half bad.” He said, taking a drink of his coffee. “Whatcha say, Sammy?”

            Sam just grunted; the food hadn’t done much to wake him up, in fact, he was feeling more tired than before.

            “You feelin’ all right there, buddy?” Dean asked condescendingly. Sam cut him a glare from the corners of his eyes.

            “Let’s just find some place to crash, all right?” He muttered.

            “Whatever you say, man.” Dean stretched and slung one arm across the back of the seat. “Me, I still got a few hours left before I’ll sleep.”

            Sam could’ve argued that maybe Dean should have been driving, then, but he chose to let the opportunity slide.

            They found a cheap motel just off of Eastern Boulevard a few miles outside of Essex, and unloaded the Impala of the few clean clothes they had, a firearm apiece, a flask of holy water and a can of rock salt, just in case. Even with demonic activity at an all-time low since Lucifer had returned to the cage, it paid to be careful.

            Except when Sam finally dropped his lanky body onto the bed and tried to sleep, he couldn’t. Maybe it was the coffee finally kicking in, but he didn’t think so. While Dean left to pay the extra twenty bucks down on the room for WiFi, Sam flipped around on the bed trying to figure out what was keeping him awake.

            It took him a few minutes, but then he got it. His chest hurt.

            His chest, right in the place where Castiel had told him Death had replaced his soul. When he’d come to in Bobby’s panic room, his mind had grabbed hold of the first thing he recognized and he’d thought he was detoxing from demon blood, that Lilith was somewhere out there, and Ruby—Ruby had been waiting for him. Then there’d been this pain right over his sternum like the world’s biggest anvil had dropped straight onto his chest, and along with it had come a bloodred flash of something coming toward his face, like a fragment of a nightmare.

            And now it was back.

            Sam sat up, suddenly as far from asleep as he’d ever been. Sleep meant nightmares, nightmares meant—he didn’t even know. There were barely-veiled threats hanging over his head from all sides: sitting at Bobby’s table over a beer, Dean had told him flat-out that his memories of Hell and the time he’d spent topside without a soul would kill him if he so much as looked at them. Castiel had said almost the same. And then there was the sick feeling in his gut that his friends were in danger, and he didn’t know _why_.

            He had his lukewarm coffee in his hand and the laptop booted up when Dean came back, shoving a yellow piece of paper with a very distinct phone number scrawled on it into his pocket.

            Dean stopped in the doorway and shrugged off his coat. “Well, either you took a power nap or you were just kidding around about being tired.”

            “Maybe neither?” Sam suggested quietly. Before Dean could muster up a response for that, Sam sat back in the cushy motel chair, studying the computer screen. “You should get some sleep.”

            “Yeah, right. _You’re_ the lightweight.” Dean sat on the edge of the bed. “Seriously. Sam. What’s eating you?”

            “Nothing’s eating me, Dean.” Sam said tiredly.

            “That’s cute.” Dean smirked. “After all these years, you still think we can lie to each other.” He reached over and banged the laptop shut. “So. You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on with you?”

            “No, actually.” Sam glared at him. “I don’t.”

            Dean kept his hand flat on the laptop for a minute, watching Sam’s face. Then he threw himself back against his pillows and crossed his arms behind his head. “Whatever you say, man. Lemee know if you find something.”

            Five minutes later, his snoring filled the hotel room. Smiling to himself, Sam flipped the laptop open and started researching.

            It wasn’t the kind of research Dean would’ve been happy about, and Sam had already perused the first twenty-five pages of Google for anything about what happened to a soul when it went to Hell. Sure, Dean had been there, but unlike his brother Dean also didn’t have a wall blocking his memories out. And it was the not knowing _why_ the wall was there that made Sam uneasy. What about his time in Hell was so awful that he wasn’t even allowed to remember it?

            By sunup Sam was fighting the worst eyestrain headache of his life and seriously considering saying ‘screw it all’ and trying to sleep. But every time he looked up at Dean sprawled out drooling on the bed, it kept him working. The things Castiel had told him—he’d let Dean be turned by a vampire. He’d almost killed a dozen innocent people and offered up his family on a slab. Sam could sleep when he was dead, if Dean ever let him get there, and in the meantime there was enough Google here to fill a few books. He kept going.

            Finally, his gaze sliding out of focus, blood vessels burning in his eyes, Sam shut the laptop, crossed his arms on top of it and put his head down. The darkness was like the best friend he’d ever had, welcoming him in.

            Sleep wasn’t the same kind of friend. Sam’s dreams were memories twisted with illusions, so he watched himself die; watched Mom die; watched Jessica, Dad and Dean die. Then, other people—Sarah, Maddie, Becky. Bobby and Ellen and Jo. Castiel. Adam. Even Ash, who’d reached his own personal corner of Heaven, burned in a blaze of sulfur through Sam’s nightmares. All of these things he didn’t dream of that much anymore, coming back, stacking up because his brain was still all pistons firing.

            He faced Azazel, felt the demon holding him down. “You’re mine now, _Sammy_.” Sam tasted blood dripping into his mouth from Azazel’s slit and oozing arm. He twisted free, broke the Yellow-Eyed Demon’s grip, and found himself standing on the edge of a gaping endless black hole, smoke and lightning at the bottom. _Hell_. He looked up and saw Dean standing above the pit. His eyes were worse than hurt— _betrayed_.

            “Why’d you let ’em take me, Sam?” Dean dropped like a stone into the smoke, disappearing from view, his last scream on the air: “Help me! _Sam_!”

            The next thing he knew apart from running through his bad dreams trying to escape what he couldn’t change, stop or control, someone was shaking him awake.

            “Sam? Hey, man, c’mon—you’re gonna break the laptop. _Sam_!”

            Sam jackknifed up out of the seat, spitting out a breath, hand going for his gun before he really realized it was Dean shaking him and not some intruder or a demon from his nightmares. The headache was playing hell against his vision, making the slants of light through the window look twice as long and twice as bright as they should’ve been.

            “Dean?” He mumbled.

            “You look like hell.” Dean said. “Go get some sleep, wouldja?”

            “I was.” Sam staggered to his feet, putting one hand to the wall to steady himself.            

            “Didn’t sound like it to me.” Dean looked him over. “Haven’t heard you talk in your sleep like that since California.”

            Sam looked away. “What, after the Shapeshifter?”

            “No. Jess.”

            Sam staggered to the bed and threw his lanky frame down on it.

            “Sam. You aren’t some kinda hunter machine. You’ve got limits, all right? Don’t break ’em.” He could tell Dean was talking away from him, probably looking at the window, judging how much daylight they’d be wasting while Sam was asleep.

            “Try practicing what you’re preaching.” Sam yawned.

            “Hey. I know my limits.”

            Dying. That was Dean’s limit and everything beneath that was just barely insane. So they were out here chasing a spirit that raped and murdered hunters. And that was great—it would be Dean’s exact flavor of crazy.

 

[R~L]

  
        Lidya Barons had seen a lot of strange things in her life, a lot of awful things.

Sometimes she’d been afraid with all the things she’d seen that she would lose her grip on what was real and start believing everyone was this evil. That anyone was capable of anything, that her own family would murder her the way Olive Grafton’s had, slashing her open from head to foot, laying her bare. They’d later tried to sell her organs on the black market and been apprehended, but Lidya had been the only one at the little girl’s funeral. Olive had been seven years old.

            None of the people Lidya had been seeing on her table in the last two weeks had been under twenty years old when they’d died, or so she could deduce from the layer of grime and decay of flesh and bones. Some, pulled from the inlet of Chesapeake Bay where it backed the Riverview Rehabilitation and Health Center, were still decomposing. Others had been feasted on by insects for decades. The oldest was almost half a century dead. And from what Lidya could tell, they had all met the same frightening end.

            She’d never been afraid of being a medical examiner, really. In fact she’d had a fascination with the dead, perhaps morbidly so, ever since her mother had died when she was nine and Lidya had been trapped in the house with her corpse. She’d watched the flies move in, the maggots—helpless to stop it, and then learning from it. Her father, when he’d taken her from the arms of the fireman who’d pulled her from their wrecked, broken home, had whisked her immediately to a therapy session. And in thirty years, she’d remained stable, emotionally and mentally.

            But she couldn’t help that fascination that’d been her constant companion since her mother had died. She loved the job, even when there was melancholy or grieving with it, like in the case of Olive Grafton. She’d seen everything from drowned boaters turning up weeks after a storm, just waiting for her to identify them, to autopsy patients brought to her by local police—she’d even had the privilege and delighted interest of examining a body from the funeral home just off Mace Avenue, when the beloved of the deceased had suspected foul play.

            The job was a somber but interesting one, and Lidya was strangely happy to do it.

            That had all changed when the first, second and third bodies appeared on her table. All of them in varying stages of decay, but all most certainly very dead. All having been brutally violated with some kind of blunt object, pre-mortem. Every one a man. It was the most thankless, horrific job Lidya had ever done. And the body count didn’t stop; they were up to more than a dozen now.

            “You know we appreciate your discretion, Lidya.” Officer Hughes had said when they’d slung in not two, not three, but four bodies from the inlet in one day. All discovered, rumor had it, by a patient in the Health Center who’d been taking a stroll down by the water. “Don’t want to start a panic.”

            No, of course not. Essex was a peaceful town.

            But it wasn’t just Essex; bodies started coming to her from areas just outside the county line, all on special status; brought to her on Hughes’ request, because she was becoming familiar with the case already, and the signs. The things she told the officers and the things she didn’t.

            Lidya had known, ever since her house was destroyed, that not everything in the world operated by natural forces. Raised a Catholic and now mostly neutral when it came to religion, Lidya couldn’t deny even to herself that some things in this world couldn’t be explained by what she saw with her own two eyes. Whether it was God or Buddha or who-the-hell knew what else, facts were facts, even if science couldn’t explain them. Some things had to be accepted as being—well, unacceptable.

            She started to get that uneasy feeling after the seventh body turned up. Rumors were flying in the office now that this wasn’t just some random act of violence. This was the uncovering of a serial killer, someone who’d been operating under the radar for a good forty years and was just now catching a bad stroke of luck.

            Lidya didn’t believe it. All the evidence was there, but her gut told her it was something more. And what had her father always told her? “Lidya, God gave us a conscience and he gave us a gut. That’s how God talks to you. Go with your gut.”

            Well. She wasn’t really sure if it was God talking to her, but her gut had gotten her out of an awful lot of bad dates and dangerous situations, so she had faith in that much, at least. And when body number twelve had turned up, not a full two years dead by the look of it, she’d gone home, poured herself a tumbler of whiskey with shaking hands, and picked up the battered, much-abused business card from the desk drawer in her study.

            Richard, her husband of three years, was asleep upstairs. Rowley, their Dalmatian, trotted at her heels as Lidya went into the living room. She sat on the couch in the dark, curtains drawn, the light from the streetlamp on the corner slanting between the shades, barely, just enough to outline the fireplace behind her. Taylor Avenue was quiet in these pre-dawn hours; Lidya had had plenty of time to think this through. But some things didn’t change no matter how much you thought about them. Twelve dead bodies—all murdered the same way in the last forty-nine, almost fifty years by the state of one or two of them—didn’t change their stories.

            Lidya dialed the top number on the card. Listened to the phone ring, her hand shaking, before a mechanical voice told her that the phone was out of service. Feeling more desperate by the minute, she called the other number on the card, praying it would work. It picked up halfway through the second ring.

            “Hello?”

            “Bobby?” Lidya’s voice cracked. “It’s Lidya. Lidya Hamilton—Barons, now.”

            “Lidya!” Bobby sounded shocked, relieved, a few years’ heavy strain wasting off his voice. “What’s goin’ on? Why’d you call me?”

            “I know you said I should only call if it was an emergency.” Furious at her shaking voice, Lidya rubbed a hand against her eyes. “Listen, Bobby, something’s wrong here. Really wrong. I don’t think it’s natural. I think we may all be in danger and I…I just didn’t know who else to call.”

            “All right, all right, slow down, just take it easy, all right?” Bobby was suddenly the one in control, with pure steel in his voice like the first time Lidya had met him. “I was just about to call you. What’s this I’m hearin’ about a string of murders in Essex? You all right?”

            “Yes.” Lidya closed her eyes and pinched and wiped her nose. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, it’s only going after men anyway.”

            “ _It_?”

            Lidya rested her forehead on her palm. “That’s the thing, Bobby. These murders, these bodies—most of them are almost fifty years old. I don’t know what’s bringing them up now, but something doesn’t feel right about this.” Her voice broke. “Bobby, I’m really scared. This isn’t right.”

            “That what your gut’s tellin’ you?”

            Lidya paused. “Yes.” She looked out the window. “And there’s something else, too. Bobby, I recognized a few of the men on my table. They were with you when you came through Baltimore to Georgia on that hunt in eighty-nine. And Hughes just brought in two more today with bags of salt in their pockets. _Rock_ salt. So I looked back through the personal affects they took off the other bodies—classic hunting paraphernalia on almost all of them.”

            A long, long silence followed. “Lidya. You sure?”

            “Positive, Bobby, I’m positive. I don’t forget faces. Not the faces that are left…some of them had the dental records, the names matched. I don’t do things by half.”

            “I know you don’t.” She heard Bobby speaking to someone in the background. “Listen, I’ll have to call you back. I need to dig a little deeper on this.”

            “Be careful, Bobby. Whatever’s out here, it’s killing hunters.”

            “Doubt it’ll be _my_ problem,” Bobby said grimly, and then he hung up.

            And Lidya had been left to wonder ever since whose problem it would be.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_November 30 th, 2011_

_Super 8 Motel, Essex, Maryland_

 

Dean hated being awake before Sam. It always made him antsy.

            Near twenty years of surviving endless long nights of roadtrips where he was the only one keeping his dad awake while Sam slept like the dead in the backseat—figuratively speaking. Dean had realized a long time ago that the dead didn’t always sleep so deeply—had schooled Dean very quickly in the merits of coffee. He’d become a heavy drinker and firm believer in the stuff when he was barely nine years young. In some ways, he preferred it to beer; the truth was he liked the caffeinated rush. Living six days a week on pure adrenaline and caffeine made him feel like anything less than hyperawareness was a waste of whatever God-given reflexes he had.

            Except, when Dean was awake, he always felt like he was exposed. Like sleeping was the only escape he had from being totally ratcheted up, constantly aware that anyone and anything could be lurking in the dark, ready to attack. That knowledge had wreaked holy hell on him when he’d driven to pick Sam up from Stanford after their dad had gone missing five years ago. For a few unbearable hours on the road alone, he’d been moving exposed, and no one had been there to watch his back.

            It was the same thing now, with Sam sprawled on the bed drooling all over himself, and Dean in the motel’s single chair, feet propped up on the foot of the other bed, hands folded, watching his brother sleep. It was weird, hearing the sound of his own thoughts without Sam’s pansy-ass, annoying, geeky, pretty damn useful running commentary in the background. Sam had picked up dad’s calm and reserve because that was what dad had always been in front of him when Dean and Sam were kids—in control of any and every situation. Boarded up in a motel room with a werewolf prowling outside? No biggy. Hints of demonic presence in the area? Here, let me spare the salt off my French Fries for your doorpost.

            It was with Dean alone that John Winchester had let his guard drop, like someone had cracked the perfect plaster of the mask that protected Sam from the most brutal, broken, angry part of the world, the most terrifying monster of all: his own father.

            With Dean, John had been real: hurt, crushed, still bleeding from Mary’s death, bleeding hatred and vengeance over everything, ruining relationships and hunts that he couldn’t always put back together again.

Dean had come to know the look on his father’s face when something was about to give out. They’d leave Sam with Bobby or Pastor Jim or Caleb and go off for a weekend, just Dean and John. And while they were hiking, practicing outdoor survival skills or working on marksmanship—Dean had fired his first firearm at age six—John would shed the mask. He’d curse; explode with mercurial fits of temper; retreat into himself for hours. Once, Dean had mixed up his regular and rock salt rounds in the shotgun during target practice and misfired, peppering his father’s arm with a side-spray of pellets. John had ripped the shotgun from his hands and broken it against the wall over Dean’s head. It had scared the ever-living crap out of him.

            And then John had swept him up in a hug so tight, Dean hadn’t been able to breathe. John hadn’t apologized, just buried his fingers deep in his son’s hair and put his chin on Dean’s shoulder.

            “Too much, isn’t it?” John had asked hoarsely.

            That was Dean, through and through. His father’s temper and his father’s compassion. Sam was the calm and control, the mask that had been the real John before Mary died. With both their parents gone, those pieces were all that was left, and they’d settled in the hearts and lives of the brothers. They balanced each other. So when Dean was left to his own thoughts, things tended to get a little unstable.

            He stuffed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper with the number written on it; Katrina, the girl who’d been working the front desk, was exactly Dean’s type: cute, blonde and more than welcoming to his advances. Maybe a little _too_ welcoming, if he was being honest with himself, but that usually meant a one-night stand with less strings attached.

            Except he wasn’t entirely sure where his loyalties were lying, anymore. He’d been a lot happier waking up every morning with Lisa in his arms than any day he’d had to go running out the door because he didn’t want some random chick to remember his face. Sure, she was cute; he just wasn’t sure he wanted to invest time and energy in her. After all, this was the home stretch; he could feel it. Him and Sam, they were back in business, putting the pieces together again. But there was a kind of unspoken understanding between them: all the cards were on the table. No more deals with demons, no more insane pleas for each other’s lives. This was all they had, right now, and Dean wasn’t exactly sure where to steer his life from here.

“Brother’s keeper” was a pretty decent, honest summary of his life since he was four years old, but it wasn’t exactly something you wrote on your gravestone. Neither was, “Here lies a ghost-hunting, demon-exorcising, drives-the-ladies-crazy badass. I’ll be back.” Although that was pretty true, too.

            Having spent a good quarter of his life in various cemeteries digging up equally various and sundry corpses, Dean had seen every possible gravestone out there. From practical jokes to whiny emo epitaphs, and everything in between. But there was something that got him every time: an unmarked grave. What kind of bastard must that guy have been, he’d always wonder, that no one even wanted to remember him? Or had he just been dirt-poor?

            Dean didn’t have much left in the world, but he had one thing: he had a son, or at least he’d had before Lisa had given him the boot. And no matter what, Ben would always know about him, would always wonder where he was, what he was doing. Like John before him, Dean had a responsibility to train the kid up. And he’d be a hypocrite to tell Ben to avoid loose women like the plague and pain in the ass they usually were, but dammit if he was going to bed with some random motel chick today. It was too soon. Wrong place, wrong time. Always was.

            And now that he thought about Lisa and Ben, he started worrying. Big time.

            Dean flipped open his phone and punched in the number that would help clear his mind, would give him some illusion of relief. The same call he’d been trying to make for weeks, with some excuse always holding him back.

            But there was nothing. Just a void of silence on the other end of the line.

            Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it; blank. He’d charged it at the last motel they’d stayed in and hadn’t used it since. So either the cell service out here was crap.

            Or.

            Dean kicked the remote from the bed into his hands—silently congratulating himself on his awesomeness—and clicked the TV on.

            First it was black. Then there was a whole lot of white noise.

            “Oh, that can’t be good.” Dean muttered. He threw his phone on the bed. “Sammy! Rise and shine! Time to work!”

            Sam pushed his face harder into the pillow and mumbled something that could’ve been a lot of profanity or a pretty lame attempt at Latin. Figured Sam could do that exorcizing mojo in his sleep.

            “Sam!” Dean checked the rock-salt rounds in his shotgun; force of habit. “Dude, I’m serious! I think our, uh, hunter-killing spirit made us!”

            “What?” Sam floundered into a passably upright position, squinting against the daylight. “Dean…man, what are you talking about?”

            Dean’s intended reply was interrupted when a picture rattled off its hooks behind him, crashing on top of the television and ripping the cord out of the wall. That spelled the end for the rustic, frayed canvas of the painting—but somehow the white noise on the television scrolled on.

            That seemed to get Sam’s attention. He shoved himself to his feet and caught the shotgun Dean tossed to him one-handed. Hefting and aiming it, he put his back to his brother’s and faced the bathroom door—which was banging itself violently open and shut—while Dean aimed for the window that was rattling in its panes on what seemed like the verge of imminent implosion.

            “This could get rocky, Sam!” Dean almost yelled to be heard above the clamor. Sam didn’t reply, just leveled the shotgun in preparation to fire.

            And then, as suddenly as the noise had begun, it stopped. The shaking vanished like wind being suctioned into the back-draft of a fire. An eerie hush fell over the room and the bathroom door eased shut with a whisper.

            Dean didn’t stand down. Every synapsis in his brain was firing in overtime. Only his two-plus-decades of training kept his hands steady on the gun. He couldn’t say he was exactly used to having a fight end like that—it was about fifty-fifty in this job, sometimes you had to fire and sometimes you got knocked on your ass—but it didn’t make it any easier to come down off an adrenaline high.

            He felt Sam relax first, heard the muffled impact of the butt of the sawed-off shotgun sinking into the bedspread. “All right. What just happened?”

            “Dunno. Looks like our buddy Casper decided to be friendly after all.” Dean worked himself down from the feeling of being ready to kill at the first sense of something _wrong_ brushing up against him. He tucked the shotgun under one arm and checked the rounds again even though he hadn’t fired, just to give himself time to think. He cut a glance toward the bed and saw Sam sitting there, shotgun across his knees, watching him. Dean shrugged. “I got nothin’.”

            “Yeah, me neither.” Sam folded his hands, rested his forehead against them for a second and then sat up straight again. “How many times, Dean?”

            “Huh?” Dean said.

            “How many times’ve we faced down a spirit that came around and just,” Sam paused. “It just didn’t _do_ anything?”

            “Except for a little renovating.” Dean walked over and picked up the ruined canvas from the floor, studying the messy splash of drab colors. “Huh. Spirit’s got taste.”

            “Dean.”

            “All right, so it just wanted to get the sweep on us.” Dean leaned the picture against the wall and turned back to face Sam. “Question is, what for?”

            “And if it knew we were hunters, why not kill us now?” Sam rubbed his face with both hands. “I mean, we’ve faced a crapload of vengeful spirits, but this? They usually have one-track minds. Why let us live?”

            “One reason.” Dean held up a finger and snapped the shotgun shut again with his free hand. “Killing us ain’t its master plan.”

            “Well, great. So what is?”

            “I dunno, you’re the lore wizard. You figure it out.”

            Sam smirked. “Yeah. You wanna hand me the laptop?”

            Dean tossed the shotgun onto the chair, finally able to convince himself that the threat, for the moment, had decreased, and picked up the computer. “Yeah, get it yourself, you lazy bit—” He broke off. “Sam?”

            For an instant when his brother grabbed the laptop from him, Dean saw Sam’s face twist with pain.

            “It’s nothing, Dean.” Sam pulled an incredibly lame attempt at a smile as he opened the laptop on his knees.

            Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Somethin’ you’re not telling me, Sammy?” Sam glanced up at him and Dean looked away with half a shrug. “Maybe you’re thinkin’ about—?”

            “Hey.” Sam cut him off. “Dean, I told you. I’m not…gonna try anything.” His eyes flicked to the computer screen. “It’s just, a, uh…a tension headache.”

            “Right.” Dean said, making it as clear as possible from his tone that he didn’t believe that answer and wasn’t satisfied with it, but that he’d let it slide. “Think you could use a coffee? I think I could use a coffee.”

            It took Sam a second to drag his eyes from the screen, and even then it was just for a second. “Yeah. Coffee sounds great.”

            “Great.” Dean yanked on his jacket and added under his breath. “Maybe I oughta spike mine.” He was getting the jitters again and Sam’s weird behavior wasn’t helping. “You sure you’re cool, Sam?”

            “Yeah, Dean. Why wouldn’t I be?”

            Dean had a feeling that was a backwards question.

# [R~L]

# Katrina wasn’t working the front desk, to Dean’s mingled disappointment and relief. And the fact that he couldn’t decide whether the lack of cute, willing blonde receptionists was a good or a bad thing meant he was not only seriously off his game, but maybe also slightly mentally incompetent.

            Dean told the middle-aged man behind the front counter about the ruined painting, attributing its untimely but not altogether unfortunate demise to roughhousing between him and Sam. Considering the bruises they both still had from their run-in with the dragons in their virgin-prison sewer hidey-hole, it wasn’t an entirely unbelievable story. It served to remind Dean that John hadn’t had them practice hand-to-hand on each other much after a fourteen-year-old Sam had royally whipped Dean during a lesson and the subsequent taunting had led to legitimate black eyes and bloody noses. Somehow, in spite of his death, they still hadn’t gotten over the terror of being half-grown men and having their father haul them apart with a warning that if they ever threw a punch at one another again, there’d be worse than hell to pay.

            And there had been, every time they’d reneged on that rule.

            When Dean got back to the room with two cups of lukewarm coffee and four blueberry muffins, the somewhat-reluctantly-smuggled-in-the-jacket-pocket courtesy of the continental breakfast at which the limit had been one muffin per person, Sam was back on duty with the laptop and had his Blackberry glued to his ear.

            “—swear, Bobby, we’re fine.” Sam was saying as Dean kicked the door shut and started unloading his pockets. “No, the spirit didn’t attack us. Just made a lot of noise.” Sam reached up without looking to catch the muffin Dean threw him. “Yeah. Well, that’s what we’re tryin’ to figure out.” He clicked through something. There was a minute of silence. “What about your M.E. friend?”

            Dean shut out his brother’s sleuthing so he could enjoy a few minutes in sweet blueberry heaven. When he came off the high better achieved only by hair guitar riffs and cheap beer, Sam was off the phone.

            “So? What’d Bobby dig up?” Dean leaned his elbows on his knees.

            “Not much.” Sam was staring narrow-eyed at the laptop screen like it’d done something to offend him. “His friend wants to meet with us.”

            “Great. Is she hot?”

            “Dean.” Sam gave him the famous Is-This-Really-The-Right-Time-For-Your-Crap? look. “The woman’s married.”

            Dean shrugged. “All right, anything else?”

            “Yeah.” Sam sighed. “And you’re not gonna like it.”

            “Hit me.”

            “Bobby says there’s another hunter in town, someone he’s been keeping tabs on for a few weeks.”

            “Well hey, I love our fellow hunters. Peace, love and joy!” Dean smiled darkly. “They’ve only ever beaten, shot, maimed, and uh, oh yeah, _killed_ us before.” He shot Sam a cock-eyed glance and Sam shrugged helplessly. Dean sighed. “This guy gotta name?”

            “Yeah, uh…” Sam checked his laptop. “Gary Rigel. Bobby says he disappeared off the radar a few years back, but he just popped up again a month ago. Apparently, he was doing jail time.”

            “Well, that doesn’t sound at all like a hunter.” Dean rolled his eyes. “What was he in for?”

            “He was slipping some girl a date-rape drug.” Sam shook his head. “A bouncer at the club caught him in the act. He served a couple months and got off on good behavior. Bobby’s been keeping an eye on him ever since.”

            “Good ol’ Bobby.” Dean threw back a few swigs of coffee. “Where’s this douchebag staying?”

            “Bobby called around, looked for a couple aliases. Rigel’s staying at the El-Rich Motel off of Pulaski Highway under the name Marnie Evans. It’s about eight minutes from here.”

            “Ever think it’s a little creepy how Bobby can find you no matter who you are or what bogus name you use?”

            “Nah. I always figured it was a blessing in disguise.” Sam peered at him over the top of the laptop. “Remember? Dad, San Diego, when you were twelve and you got that—what was it, rot lung? We all thought you were dying and dad wouldn’t answer his phone?”

            Dean shook that one off. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I still don’t know what the _hell_ kind of sick that was.”

            “My point is, Bobby’s talents come in handy.” Sam snapped the laptop shut. “So. What’s our first move? M.E., or Rigel?”

            “You wanna flip a coin?” Dean asked sarcastically. “Eat your damn muffin, Sam. We’re goin’ to the M.E.’s first.” He threw on his jacket. “Last thing I wanna do is face another psycho hunter first thing in the morning.”

            “What, the Campbells were too much for you?” Sam asked. Dean paused and looked at his brother, catching Sam’s eye just before he looked away. “Yeah, maybe not…”

            “Not exactly somethin’ we, uh, need to be talkin’ about.” Dean opened the door, let Sam out first and followed him into daylight.

            “Look, all I’m saying is—”

            “As far as I’m concerned, you and Bobby are family. And maybe Cass.” Dean shrugged. “The rest of those back-stabbing dicks can go burn in hell.”

            “That’s good to know.” Sam said. “I’m gone for a year and you still haven’t learned how to play with the other kids.”

            “Har har.” Dean caught Sam grinning as they climbed into the Impala and cranked on the radio. More Bon Jovi. Dean turned it off with a silent curse toward whatever demon was messing with the musical mojo around here.

            The Chief Medical Examiner’s Office was nearly half an hour from the motel, and by the time they’d made it there Dean felt mostly normal; his rebound rate from ghost encounters was rounding out impressively after all these years. So impressively, in fact, that he was able to duly note that the School of Nursing was next door to the M.E.’s office.

            “Hot damn, Sammy!” Dean slid the Impala smoothly into the parking garage. “Maybe we oughta case that place, too.”

            “Dean. Are you serious?”

            “What? Never know when having a nurse friend could be useful.”

            “I can think of about a hundred different ways that that’s creepy.” Sam hauled his gangly frame from the shotgun seat. “None of them are good.”

            “Since when isn’t sex good?”

            Sam gave him a You-Are-Unbelievable look and started walking. Dean raised his arms wide in a shrug.

            “Yeah, tell me where I’m wrong, Sam!”

            Sam gave him thumbs-up and kept walking. Grinning, Dean ran to catch up with him.

            Bobby’s contact met them at the top of the building’s steps. She wasn’t half-bad, Dean figured, with her caramel-brown hair and big green eyes. She looked like she’d had a rough night or two or four, though. There were dark circles under the dark circles under her eyes, and she had that kind of wasted-away look like she wasn’t eating much. She was twisting a wedding ring around her finger.

            “A-Are you Sam and Dean Winchester?” She asked as they stopped in front of her.

            “In the flesh.” Dean smirked. “You Bobby’s friend?”

            “Mmhmm, call me Lidya.” She shook their hands; she had a pretty firm grip. “He called me this morning, said you’d be coming to see about these…murders.”

            “Well, that’s what we’re here for.” Dean tilted his head back to look up at the building. “Nice place you got here.”

            Lidya almost smiled. “It used to be.” She turned away. “Come on in.”

            If the somewhat modest outside of the building was nice, than the inside was nothing short of _impressive_. Dean could appreciate architecture—he’d had to, he’d dated an architect in his junior year of high school—and this place obviously had some serious thought put into it. They’d almost made it to the elevator when Dean realized Sam wasn’t following them.

            His brother was standing in the middle of the room, not moving, not blinking. Dean tensed; he recognized that look. It was the same look Sam used to get before a massive headache brought on by his psychic premonitions. And after getting a very reluctant, very damaged soul stuffed back into his body, it couldn’t be a good sign.

             “You cool, Sam?”

            Sam squeezed his shut like he was forcing something away. When they snapped open and he looked at Dean, the light from the front windows catching his eyes for a half a second made them flicker golden. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

            The elevator ride was the most awkward thirty seconds of Dean’s life. He figured this Lidya chick had him and Sam pegged for total asses who couldn’t get on top of the case. He kept his eyes up and seriously hoped they’d be out of here soon.

            Lidya took them through an observation room looking down over a room full of stainless-steel tables and dead bodies. People were working over them, removing organs, picking over the good parts. Dean looked at Sam, who shrugged, and they followed Lidya into the next room.

            “Talk about cold storage.” Dean hunched his shoulders inside his jacket; this room was at least thirty degrees colder than the last one. Lidya didn’t seem to notice; she strode to the far wall and unlocked one of the small square doors. “Doesn’t bother you, huh?”

            “I spent most of my internship in this room.” She pulled out a rolling table with a cloth-wrapped body stretched across it. “I’m very used to it.” She pulled the sheet away and Sam and Dean joined her, one on each side of the tray. “No one’s identified this body yet.” She braced her hands beside the body with a sigh. “In fact, most of these bodies are unclaimed. At least half of them are John Does.”

            “Not surprising.” Dean looked up at Sam as he bent over the body. “Hunters tend to be a—kinda solitary breed.”

            “You two seem to be an exception.” Lidya said.

            “Brothers…don’t count.” Sam said.

There was another awkward pause, and then Dean cleared his throat. “So. Lidya. How’d you know these guys were all hunters?”

“Well, I’ve only met hunters once before.” She walked to a bin across the room, pulled out a small plastic bag and brought it to Dean. “But how many people do you know who carry rock salt cartridges in a shotgun?”

“I can name a few.” Dean checked the rounds. They looked legitimate. “What about the others?”

“Well, not _all_ of them had hunter weaponry.” Lidya crossed her arms in a way that made it look like she was protecting herself from something. “But when they all turn up dead the same way—it’s a pattern, you know? At medical school, they always taught us to look for patterns.”

“So, wait, you were a med student?” Dean asked.

“I trained to be a nurse for two years before I realized my passion…wasn’t exactly in the living.” Lidya nodded with half a smile. Dean didn’t really have a response for that one.

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Lidya?” Sam asked.

“Well, I can tell you they all died the same way.” Lidya said. “They were, um…well, beaten. Violated.”

“You mean raped.” Dean said. Lidya gave him a very Sam-esque look.

“Yes. Raped. With all different kinds of objects, from what I can see.” She shook her head. “Then there’s the burns.”

“Uh. Burns?” Sam echoed, frowning.

“Mmhmm. Always in the same place.” Lidya took the corpse’s arm and pulled it gently away from his body, revealing a pallid wrist with a distinctive burn on the inside. “If this was a serial killer, I would say he’s leaving his mark. But Bobby didn’t seem to think so. He…he said you boys would know what to do.”

Ah. Dean knew that tone. This girl was scared shitless.

“We’ll take care of it, Lidya.” He put on his best, most disarming adorable smile. “Give us a minute?”

“Sure.” Lidya nodded and let herself out with a parting order: “Please don’t touch anything in here.”

“Yeah, ’cause we’re really gonna go feel up a bunch of dead bodies.” Dean muttered. When the door shut, he went back to the tray. “Ideas?”

“I dunno, Dean. We’re definitely dealing with a spirit.” Sam crossed the table and took a good long look at the body. “And it’s gotta be at least semi-corporeal.”

“Bitch must be hangin’ on tight, killin’ hunters so no one’ll banish her.”

“Or him.” Sam leaned forward and sniffed, then scrunched his nose. “This body smell funny to you?”

“Smells like a dead body.”

“Smells like a _really_ dead body.” Sam flipped over the card attached to the corpse’s foot. “According to Lidya, he’s the newest body. A year old.”

“So the spirit didn’t bother preserving its food. I’ll write the Health Department.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Who cares what a dead body smells like?”

Sam picked up the dead guy’s arm and took a good long look at the burn. Then his face split into that incredulous smile he got when he’d Yahtzeed on a great big discovery. “Dean. What’s this burn look like to you?”

“Like, a, uh, _burn_ , Sam.” Dean said. Sam shot him a _Please Focus_ look and Dean got in closer, looking at the charred ring of black flash from a couple of different angles.

And then he got it, the way people did when they figured out which puzzle piece goes where. “Dude. Is that a sealing symbol?”

“Branded on so the demon is bound inside a person.” Sam nodded. “This is what Meg used to lock herself inside my body, right? As long as the symbol isn’t broken, the demon’s locked up inside a person’s meat suit.”

“How’s it get around?” Dean asked, frowning.

“Wait.” Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait, I remember this.” He tapped the mark. “It wasn’t just for binding a demon inside of someone. It’s part of a ritual. Performed by witches—really powerful ones. I mean, we’re talking LaVey’s pay grade.”

“LaVey.” Dean echoed flatly. “You mean witchcraft. Satanism.”

“More specifically?” Sam  said. “The Church of Satan.”

“Oh, that’s just great.” Dean’s mouth jerked in a humorless smile. “So you’re tellin’ me we’ve got hunters summoning demons out here, binding their raw forms and making ’em jump through hoops? Doesn’t add up, Sam. I mean, you and me, we’re kinda the exception that proves the rule, but in case you didn’t notice, hunters and demons don’t exactly do beer and Superbowl together.”

Sam looked nervous for half a second. “Yeah, well, maybe the spirit’s trying to tell us something.”

“Like what? That the Devil’s Gate’s open, demons everywhere? Or, I know, maybe that the friggin’ _Apocalypse_ just ended a couple years ago? I think we got that memo already.”

“Maybe this is like mom’s spirit in the old house, Dean. Maybe she’s trying to warn us that there’s something worse out there. Like a _demon_ somebody lost control of.”

“What, and she’s gonna tell us by raping these guys?”

Sam opened his mouth, shut it, and stared down at the body. Then he shrugged. “I’m not really sure. We need to do some digging.”

Dean started to come back with a bitingly sarcastic retort, then decided against it. “All right, where do we start?”

“Let’s find out when the first murder happened.” Sam slid the tray shut and latched the door. “Come on. We’d better talk to Lidya.”

Dean waited for a second. “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

Dean looked up. “What happened out there?”

A flicker of something crossed Sam’s eyes. “What, out in the lobby? Dean, that was—that was nothing.”

“Didn’t look like _nothin’_ , Sam.”

“Dean, it’s fine.”

“Were you scratchin’ that wall again?”

Sam’s face painted with an all-too-familiar How-Dare-You-Even-Suggest-That? look; then he crossed his arms and looked down. “I dunno. The smell reminded me of something really awful, y’know. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”

“Yeah. Me too. Smelled like a _hospital_.” Dean insisted. “But it doesn’t usually bother me. You know what did bother me? The look on your face.”

Sam stayed quiet for a minute. “You think a monster is behind this?”

That stopped Dean in his line of questioning. “What, the murders?”

“No, that smell. I recognized it from the sewers where we were fighting the dragons.” Sam looked up. “Coincidence?”

“In all our _glorious_ years of doing this job together, when has it _ever_ been coincidence?”

“Good point.”

“Well, that’s just freaking fantastic.”

“Yeah.” Sam clapped him on the arm. “Watch your back.”

“That’s what I got you for.” Dean said under his breath, and followed his brother from the room.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_November 30 th, 2011_

_Essex County Library, Essex, Maryland_

 

“Find anything?” Dean asked the minute Sam slid into the front seat of the Impala.

            “The library keeps pretty valid records of all their obituaries.” Sam flung a stack of photo-copied newspaper clippings onto the seat and stretched; he’d been crammed in a tiny study box in the library for two straight hours and his knees still felt like they were being squeezed in a vise. “How about you?”

            “Went by El-Rich. No sign of Rigel.” They pulled out onto Eastern Boulevard, swung around and headed toward the outskirts of town. “Tacos or cheeseburgers?”

            “Dude. Is that even a contest?”

 

[R~L]

 

        Fifteen minutes later and two cheeseburgers heavier each, they were sprawled in the hotel room, Sam with the laptop, Dean twitching Lidya’s business card between his fingers.

            “So, let me get this straight. Murders started _fifty_ years ago?” Dean asked.

            Sam nodded, easily splitting his attention between his research on the laptop and answering Dean’s question. “Forty bodies so far, and every one of ’em died the same way. And we know spirits are generally in tune with lunar cycles, solstices, and the anniversaries of their own deaths. But get this: Lidya’s best guess? No two hunters were killed in the same year. So this spirit, it’s not managing to catch a hunter every single year.” He rocked his hips slightly in his seat, resting the side of his hand on the table. “Makes sense? I mean, hunters don’t pass through Essex all that much. Like Bobby said, it’s not a hotspot.”

            Dean’s mouth twisted down at the corners and he sat up, clapping his hands together around the business card. “So the spirit kills one hunter every year that it can get its hands on one. Narrows things down. Oldest body’s from forty years ago?” Dean kicked one foot up on the desk and rocked the rolling chair back and forth.

            “Actually, the oldest body Lidya had is _forty-nine_.” Sam gave Dean a Put-The-Pieces-Together look. Dean raised both eyebrows.

            “So we find someone who got ganked fifty years ago, died violent enough to make a spirit this screwed to hell. You got the—?”

            “Yeah.” Sam tossed a ream of papers to Dean.

“The obits.” Dean said, shuffling through the stack several pages deep. “What am I lookin’ for, Sam?”

“Well, I looked at all the obituaries dating back between fifty and sixty years ago. A couple suicides, a few old age cases, a woman who died in childbirth.”

“Any homicides?”

“One or two. Just street crime, muggings that ended bloody,” Sam swung onto his feet and came to stand behind Dean, reaching over his brother’s shoulder to tap one page in particular. “And this.”

Dean squinted at the page. “Isabelle Pole?”

Sam nodded. “She disappeared in early December, nineteen-sixty-one. Police never found her body, the case went cold. Two months later, the first hunter went missing. Daniel Dawson. His wife filed a missing person’s report but no one ever found him, either.”

“Until he rolled up on Lidya’s table?”

Sam nodded. “I called her. She confirmed it. Which probably makes him our first victim, and Isabelle’s our spirit.”

Dean dragged his fingers back through his short blond hair. “Holy crap. This chick really hates hunters, Sam.”

“Question is, why?” Sam said. “What’s driving this?”

“I dunno, maybe some hunter pissed her off?” Dean sat back with a shrug. “Hell of a grudge.”

“Well, in any case, we need to find out as much about this girl as we can.” Sam went back to the laptop. “Which is what I’ve been doing for the last half-hour.”

“And?” Dean prompted.

“Isabelle Pole disappeared from a Saloon on Golden Ring Road a few miles from here.” Sam tabbed through the pages, flashing images of the bar’s façade interspersed with snippets of its history. “Last place she was seen.”

“Sounds promising.” Dean stood up. “C’mon, let’s motor.”

 

[R~L]

 

Sylvester’s Saloon was one of the nicer bars they’d ever been to, either on a job or just for beers and some time off to relax; in fact, Sam couldn’t name one thing about it that was seedy. Which didn’t account for the uneasiness he felt the minute they walked in the door, or the way his head started hurting right above his left temple as he and Dean wound their way to the bar-counter.

“What can I get you boys?” The bartender was a stocky, not all-together-unattractive woman in her late thirties or early forties, wearing jeans and a Hard-Rock Café t-shirt that Sam figured made her a bit of a traitor to her own cause. Dean didn’t seem fazed by that, since the shirt accentuated her assets nicely.

Sam wondered to himself if every woman was on a personal mission to trap his brother into sex.

“Just a coupla beers, please.” Dean flashed that Ain’t-I-Adorable? smile that he’d used like a charm to get his way as a kid, but had had to lock away in a box of his best-kept secrets when he’d left a dent the size of Montana on one of Bobby’s junkyard cars and tried to lie his way out of it when he was twelve.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on whether Sam wanted to have to sleep in the car while his brother got business done—the woman wasn’t immune to Dean’s charm. She smiled coyly and went to grab their beers while Sam and Dean scoped the place.

Nothing out of the ordinary leapt out at Sam, literally or figuratively, as his eyes made a sweep across the room. It was your typical assortment of collars and down-dressed slummers, men and women with different and fluctuating intentions swirling around the room. And the headache was ramping up.

“Here you go, darlin’.” The bartender was back with two frothing beers and no side glances for Sam. She leaned over the counter. “Anything else I can get for you?”

“You wish,” Sam heard Dean mutter under his breath before he said, louder, “Actually, we’re lookin’ for Curtis Wainwright. Know him?”

The woman slid back from them, her face a perfect mask of disappointment. “Yeah, I know Curt. Whatcha need from him?”

“Well, see, we’re sort of detectives,” Sam said, flashing her his best Innocent-Puppy-Eyes look.

“Private detectives,” Dean added.

“Yeah, like, small-time. For personal pleasure.” Sam said.

“Uh-huh.” The bartender drawled.

“Anyway, we heard Mister Wainwright was the manager here when Isabelle Pole disappeared fifty years ago.” Sam said. “Is there any way we can talk to him?”

“Depends.” The bartender looked him up and down dismissively. “You talk to ghosts, kid?”

“Uh,” Sam smiled. “Actually…”

“Actually, we were just wonderin’ where he was buried.” Dean interrupted. “Y’know, get some pictures, get a feel for the uh, local history.”

“Thought you said you were detectives.”

“We are.” Sam scrambled for a good cover-up. “But we’re more…visual. Type. Detectives.” He shot a helpless glance at Dean.

The bartender rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms. “Can’t tell you where he’s buried. Curtis got cremated.”

Sam puffed out a sigh. “Well, thanks anyway.”

“Don’t mention it.” The bartender fluttered her mascara-caked lashes at Dean and sauntered away.

“Well, that was awkward.” Dean muttered. Sam grinned into his beer.

“’S’cuse me.” The voice was like marbles clattering inside a bucket somewhere behind them. “Could I have a word with you boys?”

Sam’s eyes slid sideways to Dean. His brother was watching him.

“Depends.” Dean said. “You armed?”

“I assume you could disarm me of my real dangerous pocketknife.”

Dean twisted around on the bar stool and Sam followed his lead.

The man behind them looked like an eighties rocker has-been, with long stringy salt-and-pepper hair, a tangled beard hanging to his chest and a headband plastering his bangs to his forehead. He looked like a ZZ-Top dropout, Sam thought, then congratulated himself silently on actually applying some of Dean’s useless musical lore to everyday life.

“So, whatcha need, chuckles?” Dean asked, tossing back more beer.

“I heard you were askin’ about Isabelle.”

Dean perked up and set his glass aside. “Yeah. What about her?”

“Well, I been comin’ here my whole life.” The man said. “Name’s Standish, I used to play my six-string here. But that’s another lifetime, son, you can bet that.” His blue eyes grew misty for a moment, then focused again. “Anywho. That girl, Isabelle, she worked here. Real looker, charm like a snake. I know me’n half the boys were trippin’ all over ourselves to be with her.”

Something sparked in the corner of Sam’s mind. “Charm like a snake, huh?”

“Just the prettiest little gal. Anywho, she used to come around to all the boys’ tables for talk and, y’know, a little teasin’. She was a tease, lemee tell you that. Boys’d get into fistfights tryin’ for her hand and she’d just laugh. Never saw her take a man home but once, though.”

“That happen to be the night she disappeared?” Dean asked casually.

“Think I’d be talkin’ to you fellas if it wudin’t?” Standish reached over, grabbed the beer out of Sam’s hand and chugged it all back in one swallow, destroying any protests he’d been articulating.

“You remember what day she went missing?” Dean smirked as Sam leaned back against the counter and shot Standish a glare.

“Sure do, I _surely_ do.” Standish clunked the mug back onto the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Was a Friday night. December fourth when she walked out that door.” He nodded gravely. “Broke my heart n’ all the boys’ hearts, too. But then somethin’ funny happened.”

“You actually had to move on?” Dean asked, lifting one eyebrow.

“Nah, fella. It was like sometimes, me n’ the boys could still hear her. Like she was right outside’a eyeshot, whisperin’. Funniest damned thing, didn’t go on for to long, either. Strangest part was, nobody missed her much when she was gone. Oh, sure, there was a gap, sure as Sunday. But nobody really mourned that girl, not many a person looked for her, either. And then all of a sudden we were havin’ ourselves a beer few days ago and it’s all anybody could talk about. Isabelle Pole. Name around town.”

“Sam, can I talk to you for a second?” Dean got up and shoved his way to the door. With an apologetic smile for Standish, Sam hurried to follow him.

They burst out into the night air and Dean swung around, looking more aggravated than he had on the back road to Clarksville.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Dean demanded.

“Yeah. Charming people when she was alive? Digging her way into people’s heads? That doesn’t sound like a spirit.” Sam paused. “Maybe she was a witch.”

Dean pressed his hands against his face, then dropped them to glare past Sam, toward the open door of the bar, the strains of a country tune wafting out into the tepid air. “Ah, dammit, Sam. You know this ain’t gonna be easy.”

“It could be something else, Dean. We don’t have to assume it’s worst-case scenario here.”

Dean paused, then turned back to face him. “Sam, what if it’s the demon killing all the hunters?”

Sam did a double-take, frowning. “What, you mean like possessing them?”

“Yeah, and then killin’ ’em. Doesn’t it say something in the Bible about a demon throwing some kid into fire and water?”

“Pretty sure that was metaphorical, Dean.”

“Well, what if isn’t? Huh? What if we’re dealin’ with some demon who’s getting its kicks outta making people _think_ it’s Isabelle, and it’s killing hunters on the side?” Sam hesitated and Dean snorted. “ _C’mon_ , Sam. We’ve seen demons doing worse ever since the Devil’s Gate, door-to-Hell deal.”

“Except the killings started about fifty years ago, Dean, a long time before Jake opened the door.” Sam reminded him. “And why didn’t any of the hunters have protection?”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, Sam, why didn’t _we_? Remember you and Meg?”

Sam winced. “All right, look. Standish gave us something, at least. We know Isabelle left the bar with someone and she never came back.”

“Someone killed her.” Dean said, the focus returning to his eyes the way it always did when facts started to align. “Set the demon free.”

“And the demon started playing games with everyone who had eyes on her.”

“Okay. So what’s the motive? Demons don’t exactly go around mucking up brain space without a reason.”

Sam wanted to go with his gut instinct—chaos, something chaotic, it always was—but he’d seen demons with ulterior intentions. Hell, Ruby had managed to hide hers from him for longer than he cared to admit, and while he owed Crowley something—a half-life, for starters—there was the nagging fact that every demon they’d ever trusted had turned on them in the end.

“Ya got me.” He finally shrugged. “But we’re runnin’ out of time, Dean. There’s three hunters in town, and the anniversary of her death…?”

“December fourth.” Dean’s eyes slid out of focus for a moment, then swung back onto his brother. “That’s next week, Sam.”

“I know. We’d better get to Rigel,” Sam shrugged to his feet and headed for the door of the Impala. “Before itdoes.”

“You know we aren’t gonna find this guy if he doesn’t wanna be found, Sam.” Dean slid into the front seat of the car.

Sam shrugged. “He’s gotta sleep sometime, right?”

 

[R~L]

 

“Please Sam, for the love of God, tell me you got the coffee.”

“Coffee.” Sam leaned half-in, half-out of the Impala through the shotgun window, enjoying the feeling of a summer night breeze on his back, and handed Dean the tall plastic cup. “You know I walked half a mile and back to get you that. Hope you enjoy it.”

Dean took it and inhaled the smell of strong black coffee, untainted. “Nectar of the gods, Sammy.” He said. “Didja get the—?”

“Pie?” Sam dropped the plastic box through the window.

“That’s my boy.” Dean smirked and flipped the box open. “Any sign of Rigel?”

“Nah. Nothing.” Sam looked over his shoulder toward the El-Rich motel; the Impala was parked in the lot of a seedy dealership next door to the ramshackle lodgings, a dim flickering streetlight casting a metallic orange glow into the street. “I dunno, Dean. Maybe he _doesn’t_ sleep.”

“Everybody sleeps, Sam.” Dean said.

“Yeah, except for us.” Sam crossed his arms on the roof of the Impala and looked at the El-Rich, the wind tugging his hair across his forehead. Then he braced his hands against the rim of the window and leaned down to look inside. “Wanna get out and stretch your legs?”

“You sure know how to talk a man up, Sam.” Dean stretched and plunked his coffee down on the dashboard. “You are one talented son of a—”

A vicious force of icy bluntness struck the back of Sam’s head. Jagged patterns of white fire and smoke shot across his field of vision as his forehead slammed into the roof of the car. In the same movement a hand jerked him back, slamming him flat on the pavement.

“Sam!” He heard Dean kick open the door of the Impala, but the whole line of his sight was filled with the gun barrel against his forehead. His skull throbbed and he saw dimly that the butt of the weapon was dripping blood. His blood.

“Following me, are you?” The man was dressed in a black shirt, black pants, a black jacket. The streetlight flickered overhead.

“All right, all right, just take it easy!” Dean commanded. “Put the gun down, all right? Just put it down.”

“Tell me why you’ve been following me!” The man snarled.

“Rigel?” Sam’s voice shook a bit; he could smell the gunpowder in the barrel as though it had been fired recently. “You’re Rigel, right?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Bobby sent us.” Sam held up his hands.

The man reached down and grabbed Sam by the collar of jacket. “I don’t know any _Bobby_.” His grip tightened, corkscrewing a button of the jacket so that it dug into Sam’s windpipe. “But I know you.” He dropped Sam back onto the pavement. “I know you, Sam Winchester.”

The butt of the gun smashed his face in the same instant that Dean leaped into Sam’s sight. Blood spurted from his nose. The world went dark.

The unconsciousness lasted for a minute and a half, maybe less. Sam was frozen on the edge of hearing and deafness, half-aware of the pain and unable to do anything about it. When he came to, he was choking on his own blood, facedown on the asphalt. He jerked upright, spitting the blood that obstructed his airway. Crickets were chirping, the streetlight shining in full force again.

The man—Rigel, that was the only person it could be—was gone.

Sam twisted around and winced; his whole head felt like it’d been crushed under the Impala’s hood. “Dean?” His voice was congested; he wiped his face on his sleeve, and his broken nose shot white daggers of pain up behind his eyes.

A car backfired somewhere down the highway. Sam shook the last few flickering lights from his eyes and got to his feet. “Dean?”

He swept the lot, still blinking furiously as the world tilted and spun, and saw the dark heap by the front of the car.

“Oh, no.” He staggered through a leaking ooze of blood and knelt, turning his brother over. The bullet hole in Dean’s chest was unmistakable—a kill shot from a practiced hunter. Dean’s eyes stared at nothing. Still Sam found himself ripping his jacket off, holding it against the sopping stain of blood on the front of his brother’s shirt. “Dean! No, man, come on! Dean—!”

_What if it sticks this time?_

A cold chill raced down the back of his neck; a hand clapped down on his shoulder, shoving him chest-first over his brother. A dangerously calm voice slapped his ears: “Didn’t I tell you I’d take him apart one piece at a time?”

“Sam!”

A fist hit him in the chest, shocking him awake. Sam sat up, sucking in air between his teeth, wide eyes staring out the windshield. A garish fluorescent glow reflected off the hood of the Impala.

“Dude. You all right?” Dean asked. Sam twisted around to look at his brother, the lights of the dashboard throwing a ghoulish glow across Dean’s face. Dean looked profoundly guarded and anxious.

“Yeah.” Sam said, breathlessness making the lie obvious. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to dispel the nightmare. “What time is it?”

“Little after four.” Dean crossed his arms loosely on the steering wheel and looked up at the sky. “Can’t stick around when it’s light out.”

“No sign of Rigel?”

“Not since you dozed off on me.” Dean slid him a sideways glance. “Sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, Dean.” Sam sat up and cleared his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno, Sam, you tell me.”

Sam looked out the window, catching sight of his reflection for an instant before it was swallowed up by the striations of orange and yellow where light and darkness crossed paths. He knew what Dean meant. “It’s fine.”

Headlights cut suddenly through the darkness, spilling across the Pulaski Highway. Sam sat up straighter as a boat-like Buick rolled into the parking lot of El-Rich. “Dean.”

“I see it.” Dean grabbed a pair of binoculars from the seat and leaned forward. “That look like the car Bobby told us about?”

“Nope.” Sam yanked his jacket on. “That probably means it’s Rigel.”

“One way to find out.” Dean climbed out and shut the door quietly behind him. Sam followed him, shaking off the last of his dream as he and Dean slipped around the fence separating the two lots and walked toward the motel.

The Buick was stopped in front of the first building. Sam walked purposefully to the soda machine outside the front office, glancing over his shoulder as he fed the change into the slot.

The man climbing out of the front seat was tall and dressed in dark, a spill of long graying hair falling over his shoulders, face ashy under the moonlight. Sam felt something sour curdling in his stomach as he watched the man saunter to the nearest room and let himself in.

Fifteen seconds later, Dean jogged over to join Sam. “Tell me that Coke’s legit.”

Sam tossed it to him and watched his brother take a long, nerve-calming gulp. “Dean, I’m not sure about this.”

“C’mon, Sam, he’s a hunter. We gotta warn him.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Sam said, pushing his hands back through his hair. “I’m just not sure we should take this guy on his own turf.”

“Sam. It’s a motel. No man’s land.” Dean handed him the Coke. “You need this more than I do.”

“Thanks.” Sam took a drink and felt the familiar, almost instantaneous rush of caffeine through his veins. “He’ll be armed. Heavily.”

“Ah, we kick more ass than any of these dicks.” Dean smirked. “Anyway. Hopefully it won’t come to that.” He started toward the door and Sam took a deep breath.

“Hopefully.”

They took opposite sides of the door, drawing the firearms from their waistbands. Sam tried the handle gently; it was locked. He hadn’t expected anything less. He met Dean’s eyes and at his brother’s nod, Sam swung around and kicked the door open.

It came almost clean off its hinges. Dean moved to cover Sam and took a lamp base right to the face. He stumbled back, and then the fight was on.

The firearm was jolted from Sam’s hands by a well-aimed kick from the lamp-wielding man. Sam grabbed his attacker’s foot and heaved him back into the room. They rolled tussling through the darkness, Sam not even able to tell if it was Rigel they were fighting or someone else; all they had was a description from Bobby, and in the total blackness of the hotel room even that was indiscernible.

Heavy weight struck Sam’s temple, clattering his teeth together and rolling globes of pain inside his head. He was lifted briefly off his feet and his head struck the sharp edge of the bed, disorienting him. A second later, bony strong fingers encircled his throat and his head slammed against the floor, once—twice—three times, until he didn’t know up from down and his skull felt like it was shaking into pieces. He felt himself being thrown sideways, cracked his chin on the edge of the bed and slumped.

Then, a yell. Dean yelling, and two bodies struck the wall. Sam heard scuffling as he blinked the dazedness away, and then the cold, calculated report of two gunshots firing in rapid succession.

He spun onto his feet, staggering into the side of the bed and nearly collapsing again, clutching his jaw in one hand.

His attacker—Rigel, Sam was assuming, because the thick layer of salt on the windowsill was unmistakable now—was up against the wall, hands raised defensively. Two smoking bullet holes in the plaster beside his head left no doubt that Dean was deadly and in-charge. Without taking his eyes from the man, Dean said, “Sam, you all right?”

Sam started to answer and cut off; his jaw wouldn’t move.

Dean turned his head. “Sam?”

The gun was out of his hands and into Rigel’s so fast it was a blur in the shadows. The gun hit Dean’s temple, crumbling him, and as he fell Rigel took aim.

With a grunt, Sam flung himself at Dean, knocking his brother flying as the bullets chewed into the floor where Dean had almost fallen. They skidded across the floor and crashed into the wall, leaving a dent the size and shape of Dean’s shoulder in the plaster and sending up a cloud of tattered wallpaper.

Sam sat up, groaning, hearing the Buick’s engine starting up again. He dragged himself to his feet and ran, but by the time he’d stepped out into the night, Rigel had peeled out and vanished down the highway.

Sam sagged against the doorway, spent and dizzy from pain and adrenaline. Panting, Dean joined him, massaging his shoulder.

“Well, I’m humiliated.” He looked up at Sam, and Sam pointed to his dislocated jaw. With the long-suffering look of a martyr, Dean grabbed Sam’s face and popped his jaw back into place.

A wave of pain drove up under Sam’s skin, then abated. He worked his jaw to loosen it and sighed, looking down the highway.

“Well, we screwed this one up.” Dean said. “Let’s sweep the place and bail before the whole damn police department shows up.”

There was nothing of any value left in the room, no clue as to where Rigel was going; he had been traveling light, and he’d taken Dean’s gun with him. In the end they scattered the salt from the windowsill and left empty-handed, sporting injuries to both bodies and egos. Dean’s mood only darkened when they found nothing good on any of the local classic rock stations.

“Great. So whadda we do now?” He demanded, flicking off the radio.

Sam shrugged. “I dunno, Dean. Regroup? Start looking for the demon? Rigel’s obviously not gonna listen to us.”

“Hopefully the bastard’ll hightail it outta town.” Dean struck the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “Why do all the other hunters gotta be dicks, Sam?”

Sam smiled disbelievingly. “Y’know, we’re not exactly _Hunters of the Year_ , Dean.” When Dean gave him a narrow-eyed look, he added, “Look. Maybe Rigel _is_ a dick. But he doesn’t deserve to die.”

“You think we woulda gone over there if he did?” Dean snapped. His eyes scanned the highway and then he sighed. “Let’s just focus on stopping this damned ghost. Demon. Whatever the hell this is.”

“Good idea.”

 Sam looked out the window again and thought about blood.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_December 1 st, 2011_

_Home of Amelia Cheshire, Essex, Maryland_

 

“Isabelle Pole was a darling girl.”

Amelia Cheshire’s voice was papery-thin like onionskin, so Dean had to lean forward to hear her. “She was just so _unfortunate_ in matters of the heart.”

            “Yeah, you mentioned that.” Dean glanced up at Sam, who was discreetly perusing the old woman’s hearth. “You said she was your best friend?”

            “Since the day her family moved in next door to ours. Her mother was a schoolteacher, her father was a businessman. And sweet Isabelle, she was just a girl and so wise, as though she’d seen the world.” Amelia paused with a wistful smile. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her, God rest her poor soul. If only she’d been fortunate enough to find a good man, maybe she would still be with us.”

            “When was the last time you saw her?” Dean asked. Amelia stared at him and her milky blue eyes glimmered with tears. Dean shot Sam a We-Are-In-Desperate-Need-Of-The-Puppy-Eyes look, which Sam countered with a You’re-A-Hopeless-Insensitive-Jerk bitchface, and crouched beside Amelia’s chair.

            “Amelia.” He said gently. “I know this is hard. I know she was your friend. But we’re just trying to find justice. You can help us do that. All right?”

            Amelia pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, it was at a small tea shop in the heart of the town—oh, you won’t find it, it burned down years ago—but she seemed so happy. She mentioned a man she thought was…well, a bit sweet for her.” The old woman smiled coyly and Sam cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. Dean smirked.

            “Did she ever tell you his name?” Sam asked.

            “Oh, I’m not sure at all anymore…Maurice? Marcus?”

            “But it definitely started with an ‘M’?” Dean asked.

            “Yes, it…it most certainly did.” Amelia squinted at him. “Where did you boys say you were from, again?”

            “FBI, ma’am.” Dean said—for at least the fourth time since they’d come to the old woman’s home. “Case just got hot again. We think we’re closing in on Isabelle’s killer.”

            “Oh, yes, well.” She leaned back in her chair. “It’s very sweet of you to try, and those of us who knew her, we certainly appreciate it, but…” She squinted up at them. “You do know that Isabelle is at peace. Don’t you?”

            Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. “Yes, ma’am.” Sam said. “We know that.” He got to his feet. “If you think of anything else, give us a call. Any time.”

            “Yes, I’ll…I’ll be sure to do that.” The old woman said.

            Outside, in the sunlight, Sam’s expression with mulish with deep thought, Dean’s with aggravation. They climbed into the Impala and drove away.

Dean drummed the steering wheel. “We’ve questioned half this damned town, Sam. Every person we’ve run into says Isabelle was some wise broad with bad luck in love, who was adopted. That seem funny to you?”

            Sam rested his arm on the open windowsill. Silence wrapped around the Impala as they drove, the kind of silence Dean hated because it usually meant Sam was thinking about something stupid, reckless, or damn serious. Last time he’d been like that, he’d turned around in the seat and said, “You think I’m strong enough to fight Lucifer?”

            “You gonna keep me in suspense?” He asked, avoiding Sam’s eyes as he concentrated on the road.

            “Everyone we talked to—Standish, Amelia Cheshire, all the others who were there when Isabelle disappeared—none of them really missed her, at first. It was like she was just… _gone_ , y’know?”

            “’Kay, with you so far.”

            “But lately everyone’s started missing her. Right? I mean, _everyone_.” Sam chewed the inside of his lower lip. “I think maybe that burn is something else, Dean. Something, I dunno, _not demonic_. I’m thinking…this really is a ghost.”

            “Okay, Einstein. Where’d that come from?”

            “Makes sense. Spiritual influences are stronger around anniversaries, right? Isabelle’s coming up on fifty years. Maybe everyone in this town who knew her is starting to pick up on that, too.”

            The silence came back, this time with an atmosphere of satisfaction.

            “So, no demon.” Dean turned onto the main thoroughfare highway through Essex. “The ghost’s got the town to herself.”

            “And she is doing _everything_ she can to hide.”

            “We got four days, Sam. This bitch isn’t gonna sit by and wait for us to find her.”

            “Let me give Bobby a call. He’s trapped ghosts and vengeful spirits before, he should be able to give us some pointers on how to get to Isabelle.” Sam pulled out his Blackberry, stopped, pressed a fist against his temple and grimaced. Dean caught the motion from the corner of his eye.

            “How long you been havin’ those headaches, Sam?”

            “It’s, uh,” Sam squinted and shook his head a bit. “It’s not a headache, Dean.”

            Dean hesitated, but Sam didn’t elaborate. “All right, you gonna—what? You gonna throw up all over my upholstery? ’Cause if you do, Sam, I swear to God—”

            “While I was walking around,” Sam cut him off. “Without my soul…did anyone ever try to use you to get to me?”

            “What, Cass didn’t tell you?” Dean pulled into the parking lot of the motel and killed the engine. “It was the other way around. Crowley sorta used you to, uh, make me his bitch.”

            “ _Crowley_ _’s bitch_?” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Do I even wanna know?”

            Dean slouched back against the seat and looked at his brother. “What’s goin’ on with you, Sam?”

            “You mean, am I scratching the wall?” Sam challenged. “I just want answers, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

            “If this is about to turn into some pansy speech—”

            “Let’s just focus on the case, all right?”

            Dean was getting used to poking around the edges of this but never actually getting anywhere. Still, it made him uneasy. “Cass told you what Death said about that wall. So did I. You can’t just—”

            “Yeah, I know. Memories of Hell, all that. Dean. It’s not gonna kill me.”

            Dean wasn’t convinced.

            In matters of life and death, Sam had been wrong before.

 

[R~L]

 

            “All right, Bobby, thanks.” Sam tossed the Blackberry onto the bed. “Bobby’s got a few leads. Nothing major.”

            “Great.” Dean threw back more beer. He was already socking his way through his fourth of the night. “What’s he thinkin’?”

             “Well, he says she’s definitely a pissed-off spirit. He’s looking into a way to trap her until we find where she’s buried. Said he’d get back to me.”

            “Great.” Dean chucked his beer bottle into the trash and scrubbed his face with his hands. “So when are we gonna talk about you, Sam?”

            “Uh, that’s…never really been your conversation of choice, Dean.”

            “Dammit, Sam!”

            “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to stop looking, stop trying to set things right? I don’t have a choice. Think about all the stuff I did while I was soulless.”

            Dean picked up his head and looked at his brother. “That wasn’t you.”

            “It was _part_ of me, Dean.” Sam snapped the laptop shut. “Look, I don’t wanna argue with you about it, all right? We’re both back and for the first time in pretty much our whole lives, we _don’t_ have the Apocalypse hanging over our heads. Can we just get back to the way things used to be?”

            “Right.” Dean stood up, slung his jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door.

            “Hey, wait—Dean!”

            “I gotta go clear my head.” Dean shrugged into the jacket and stopped in the doorway to look back. “How’s that for normal?”

            The balmy late-autumn air chafed against the flush of anger on the back of his neck as Dean slid into the Impala. The hum of the engine cooled his temper a little as he pulled out onto the highway, but he was still seething—about everything. Some part of him was even blaming Yellow-Eyes for starting the chain-reaction of little lifetime explosions that had catapulted him and Sam into this argument in the first place. Into needing to _have_ this argument, which was an asinine way of looking at it. Hell, he could even go as far back as blaming Michael, or his grandfather, or God himself. None of it would do any good, anyway. He’d still be right here, in this car with—

            “Nice to see you, Dean.”

            Dean swore and yanked the car into the opposite lane, swerving back to his side of the road just in time to avoid head-on collision with a little Camry that the Impala would’ve chewed straight through.

            “Dammit, Cass! How many times do I gotta tell you—?”

            “As if you could command me.” Castiel leaned forward to look at the pitch-black sky through the windshield. “Pull off here. I want to show you something.”

            Dean obeyed by force of habit, taking the first right, bumping down a road littered with potholes until they reached a boat dock a little more than a mile off of the road. The lights of the houses across the bay reflected on wind-churned water.

            Dean killed the engine and sat back. “What’re you doin’ here, Cass?”

            “I needed to talk to you.”

            “Yeah? Well start talkin’.” Dean snapped. When Castiel stayed quiet, Dean wrestled his temper under control. “This about our buddy Raphael?”

            “No. He still hasn’t found a new vessel.”

            “Then what? Don’t tell me another one of your angel buddies found a way to put the damned Apocalypse back on track.”

            “Thankfully, no.” Castiel said. “And so far we’ve managed to prevent any more of the weapons from being stolen. But that’s the least of our worries.”

            “Oh, what, you mean with the dragons prying open Purgatory for a few hours?”

            “It worries me, Dean. Lucifer…had clear intentions. We knew exactly what he wanted. But before you and Sam spoke the spell that shut the door to Purgatory, something escaped. Something we’ve all felt.”

            “Well, that’s what Sam and I are here for.” Dean said, and then he stopped and looked at Castiel. “Wait a second. Why are you tellin’ me this? Sam needs to hear it, too.”

            “I thought you might be grateful that I chose not to intrude on your conversation with your brother in the motel room.”

            “Conversation? Cass, that was him trying to break the Fourth Wall, here!”

            “And if you were in his place?” Castiel rocked his head aside to watch Dean. “You would never do the same?” Dean slammed his hand into the steering wheel in frustration and looked away. “Dean, someday you _must realize_ : Sam is not the same brother you knew at Stanford. He’s not the brother you hunted with for all those years. You’ve both changed—grown older. Matured.”

            “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It means that things can’t go back to the way they were. You said it yourself the night Bobby Singer was paralyzed: you don’t trust each other. And how could you? He’s almost let you die several times. You thrust his soul back into his body against your better judgment and against his wishes. That isn’t trust, that’s…it’s some sick struggle for power not unlike what we’ve seen in heaven.”

            Dean hated the fact that he didn’t have some witty comeback for that. “He’s my brother, Cass.”

            Castiel looked out the windshield. “I know about brothers, Dean. I know that they can be your greatest ally,” His glance slid sideways again. “They can also be your worst enemy.”

            “That whole Apocalypse thing is behind us right now. No more Michael Sword, no more Lucifer’s Freaking Chosen Vessel, all right?” When Castiel held his silence, Dean persisted. “Cass. Team Free Will, right?”

            A flicker of something that resembled a smile passed across the angel’s face. “You and Sam may not be normal, Dean, even by a hunter’s standards. But there’s something about you that even Heaven can’t fully understand.”

            “I’m flattered.” Dean leaned one arm on the steering wheel. “So, what now?”

            “Now we get out.” Castiel said, and vanished.

            Dean shoved up onto his feet, slamming the door and stepping out into the clement night. The spit of the Chesapeake Bay inlet before them was filled with sluices of silver and black and flickers of red as a plane took off from the nearby airport, its engine sounds cutting through the cadence of the rushing water. Dean swept his surroundings with a glance and spotted Castiel on the dock. Cramming his hands in his pockets, he walked to join him.

            Pliant wood shifted under their feet as hunter and angel stood in silence. Then Castiel tilted his head back and looked up.

            “Do you know how many stars there are, Dean?”

            “I dunno.” Dean shrugged, staring at the water. “A crapload of ’em?”

            Castiel looked at him over his shoulder. “Something monumental is stirring this world, and whatever it is, it’s chaotic enough to unite the forces of Heaven again. Rumor has it that God is coming back. This isn’t a great threat like any you and Sam have encountered before, Dean. I’m not sure you can face it alone.”

            “Alone? What do you mean, _alone_?” Dean shifted and crossed his arms. “Where are _you_ going?”

            Castiel looked back up at the sky. “I have my duties.”

            “Don’t get all vague on me, you son of a bitch.” Dean grabbed Castiel by the shoulder and spun him around. “What’s goin’ on?”

            Castiel smacked Dean’s arm away. “The angels have to investigate, Dean. It’s our responsibility as mediators. And like it or not, you made us a part of this. Apocalypse or not, we’re keeping an eye on you.”

            “Why? I didn’t ask for any of this!”

            “It is so because I _said_ so.” Castiel said. “My part in this…Civil War…” He broke off and met Dean’s eyes narrowly. “It isn’t easy, Dean. But in order to prove myself, I have to show that I can fulfill the duties of any archangel.”

            “But without that kind of spiritual mojo, right?” Dean demanded, and Castiel held his silence. “Cass. You could _die_.”

            “It’s true that we don’t know what we’re facing. We _don’t know_ what the dragons let loose from Purgatory.” Castiel looked away across the water. “That changes nothing.”

            He brushed past Dean and headed down the dock. Dean turned after him. “Cass.” The angel stopped. Dean clenched his teeth. “Look. I can count on one hand how many friends I got left after the damned Apocalypse and everything else we’ve been up against. I’m asking you… _don’t_ do this.”

            Castiel looked back with a barely-hidden smirk. “You forget who saved you from Hell, Dean.”

            With a rustle of shifting air, he vanished.

            “You still suck at goodbyes.” Dean said to the empty quiet, hating how permanent this one felt. He walked back to the Impala and leaned against her hood, looking up at the sky; this close to the water the smog wasn’t so bad. He could see a few stars in the clear night sky. It reminded him of the times him and Sam had parked the Impala in the middle of nowhere and sat staring up at the stars for hours on end. Funny how a pair of high-strung hunters could sit still for that long, not talking, just drinking beer and sitting, waiting to see the world turn.

            Dean breathed out a puff of steamy breath.

            So they were facing a hyped-up ghost, and God only knew where her bones were buried or why she was killing every hunter to cross the area. Rigel was out there somewhere, unprotected and probably unaware of what was hunting him. And now Castiel was going to find out what’d skipped out of Purgatory in the narrow window while the door was open.

            Dean had had a lot of crappy nights in his life, but he was banking on this one making his list of top-ten blow-overs.

            He leaned back on the Impala.

            His senses registered the flap of cloth in the same second a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He jerked violently and catapulted upright, whirling to face Castiel.

            “Came back to say goodbye, huh?” Then it sank in, the way the angel was looking at him, and he stood down. “What the hell is it now?”

            “Dean.” Castiel stared at him with wide blue eyes full of panic. “Get to the motel. Something’s happening.”

            Dean’s gaze swung toward the road. “Sam.”

 

[R~L]

 

            The Impala roared back into town at eighty-five miles an hour on dark, abandoned streets. Dean jumped out before the car had stopped rolling, leaving Castiel climbing out behind him. He ran for the motel’s side door and bolted up the stairs, barging through to the landing at the top and stopping for half a second to catch his breath. The hallway was warm and untouched, no sign of disturbances.

            Dean ran.

            Their room was the last on the right. Dean plunged his hand into his pocket only to realize he’d left his door key on the table beside the bed. Swearing, he slammed his hands into the doorposts and leaned his forehead against the door itself. “Sam!”

            The door swung open and Dean lurched back; Castiel, looking more frantic than he had in the car, stepped aside. “Bathroom.”

            Dean strode past him and slammed his shoulder into the bathroom door, but it held. “Sam! Open the damn door! Sammy!” He stepped back and waited, hearing nothing. “Cass, what the hell is going on in there?”

            “Let me.” Castiel stretched out his hand and unlocked the door with a flick of his fingers. Dean shoved it open and stood staring in the doorway.

            Sam was sitting with his back to the wall, one hand clutching his hair, the other arm draped across his knees. The water was running in the sink and there was a stain of blood on the wall as though Sam had braced himself against it as he sat. More blood ran from his knuckles and criss-crossed in a feathered pattern on his arm. The ripe scent of vomit tinged the air and mixed with the metallic smell of blood.

            “Sam? What the hell?” Dean asked quietly. “Why didn’t you answer the door?”

            Sam’s face twisted in a rictus of pain, eyes corkscrewing shut, throat constricting like he was fighting the urge to throw up again. “Can’t move.”

            Dean crouched in front of his brother and finally noticed the streaks of tears on Sam’s face. “Dammit, Sammy. C’mere.” Dean pulled Sam’s arm over his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Sam didn’t resist but he didn’t help much, either. Dean all but dragged him out into the center of the room and sat him on the edge of the bed.

            “Turn off the light.” Castiel instructed, and Dean flipped the switch off, plunging them into near-total darkness.

            “Is that Cass?” Sam asked. He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

            “It’s me.” Castiel confirmed. His hand hovered over Sam’s forehead and Dean saw a faint flickering silver glow in the angel’s palm. Castiel’s head turned very slowly to one side, and then he stepped back. “Sleep, Sam.”

            Dean stepped up to join him. “What the hell just happened, Cass?”

            “Your brother is as stubborn as a mule.” Castiel growled. “He’s been playing with fire while you were away, Dean.”

            “He cracked the wall?”

            “Barely. Just enough to catch a glimpse of Hell, and to give himself a severe headache, the worst I’ve ever seen. He’ll live, this time.”

            Dean dragged his hands back through his hair and walked to the window, staring out over the lights of cars and buildings below. “How am I supposed to stop him?”

            “You can’t. He’s like an addict, Dean, one who can’t escape his drug. He’ll carry it around with him for the rest of his life. You can’t expect him not to get curious.”

            “I can’t let him do this to himself, Cass.”

            “Then do us all a favor: be honest with him.” There was a stillness that lasted for so long that Dean, not turning away from the window and his own reflection, was sure Castiel had left again. And then the angel spoke, quietly, “You have to find the one who’s murdering the hunters, Dean. Stop her, and you may be able to save more lives than your own, or your brother’s.”

            “So you don’t think she’s gonna quit?”

            “On the contrary. I believe she’s being fueled by something else, something more powerful than a demon.”

            “Like what?” Dean asked, but there was no answer. He turned and squinted into the empty darkness where the angel had been standing. “Cass?”

            “I’ll get word to you.” He heard the faint echo of a voice on the walls, and then the silence became absolute.

            “How? Another damn cell phone?” Dean muttered, sitting on the edge of his bed and looking at Sam sideways. His brother was asleep, sprawled out on his back, but there was still something painful in his face.

            _Be honest with him_.

            “Yeah, right.” Dean muttered, resting his clasped hands against his forehead. He didn’t even know where to start.

 

           

 


	7. Chapter 7

_December 1 st, 2011_

_Super 8 Motel, Essex, Maryland_

 

The minute Dean slammed the motel room door, Sam’s temper burst out of the seams where he’d been keeping it in check since they’d been driving to Clarksville. He hurled his beer bottle at the wall, listening to the satisfying smash and tinkle of broken glass showering down on the floor.

            Then he felt guilty, for throwing the bottle in the first place and for not keeping his temper. How many times had Dean and Bobby told him he had anger issues? Enough that he’d never forget it. He’d felt like he was walking on eggshells since he’d woken up in Bobby’s panic room, never really sure but having this feeling that he’d done enough with his anger and hatred while he was soulless to last more than one lifetime. And now he was back, now he was himself, and he couldn’t find redemption if he stayed stuck in the same rut as before.

            Sam took a walk through the motel to clear his head; Dean was obviously long gone, but Sam checked for the Impala anyway. Finding no sign of it, he sat in the small lounge area and watched the news on television: nothing but abundant signs that the Alphas were scattered, confused and lost now that the plan to free Mother had failed. But from the look of things that was just helping to ramp things up. Even with the king of the Shapeshifters gone, according to Castiel, they still had more paranormal chaos on their hands than even Lucifer had presented. And here they were chasing some random ghost.

            But then again, they didn’t have a choice. Hunters were disappearing, dying in these streets. They had to find an answer.

            With an acidic punch in his gut, Sam wondered if he would’ve walked away from this three weeks ago and kept pursuing the ultimate course. The thought made him nauseous; worse, a part of him was afraid he would go back to that. That he’d somehow lose his soul again and become that ruthless, unscrupulous bastard his enemies had always wanted him to be. Something was festering inside of him, waiting to be released, and it made his skin crawl.

            Sam went back to his room.

            The walls were closer there, and closing in. He paced, pushing his hair back with his hands; he kicked the edge of the bed to let off steam. He tried researching, but the paragraphs became black-edged panels as he scrolled down the computer screen, his eyes sliding out of focus. His headache was back, a twinge behind his right ear. Rubbing at the sore spot, Sam ate the last half of a cold cheeseburger and finally sat down, back propped against the headboard of his bed, one leg stretched out, staring up at the plaster ceiling.

            He tossed his phone to himself, wondering if he should call Bobby. He decided against it; Bobby was proficient, he’d get in touch if he found anything. And besides, there was a palpable awkwardness still hanging between them, something Sam was reluctant to breach knowing he’d been the one to cause it by almost slitting his surrogate father’s throat.

            He flicked the phone back to life and scrolled through his meager contact list; he’d had to cut out a lot of people lately, from several dozen down to about fifteen, and most of those were informants.

            The blue selection bar hovered above Dean’s name and Sam found himself fighting an internal struggle. He wanted his brother to come back, to help him straighten out whatever was knotted together and breaking apart inside of him; what psychiatrists, angels and demons had all labeled as a ridiculously dangerous codependency between them was what Sam knew to be understanding. He’d seen things, done things with Dean in the family business that no one could understand. Even their father, if he’d still been alive, would’ve been shocked and more than likely appalled by everything his sons had done and planned to do.

            But Dean got it. It was why Sam depended on him. And now he was alone and feeling like the room had collapsed in and started to suffocate him. He hit the dial button and put the phone to his ear.

            Nothing. No dial tone.

            Sam clicked it off, threw the phone on the bed and leaped to his feet. He went for the shotgun and had just touched it when something flashed in his mind.

            For one second, he wasn’t grabbing the shotgun; he was grabbing a door handle. He felt it burn in his hand like a stove, like the time he’d put his flat hand on a burner after dad was done cooking, just to see how it felt. Then there was a sick, world-spinning lurch in his gut like someone had grabbed him around the middle. He staggered back—or something threw him back—and he hit the wall.

            Sam stared frantically around the room; there was nothing there, none of the electrical interference or coldness of a spirit’s presence. He scooped up the phone and punched in a random number; it dialed. Sam hung up and got to his feet, feeling clammy and cold from head to foot. He let himself into the bathroom, shut and locked the door and braced his hands on either side of the sink, staring at his reflection.

            He knew the look in his own eyes; he saw it on the faces of every normal person he and Dean had ever helped. It was the look of someone who knew something beyond natural was happening to them, but they were powerless to stop it.

            Sam wasn’t used to being the helpless one.

            He turned on the sink, splashed cold water on his face and then went back to staring at his reflection. The shock of the cold threw things into perspective, and Sam slowly closed his eyes.

            There was another flash, this time of a dim flickering light and frigid laughter ringing off of metallic walls. Sam flinched the way he did when a stratum of light crossed his face in a moving car, and opened his eyes.

            For one second, in his reflection, they were yellow.

            Sam staggered back, slammed into the wall. He yanked off his overshirt, feeling choked and restrained, and splashed more water on his face. Then he braced himself again and closed his eyes.

            Right now, he wasn’t helping anyone; right now, guarding and thinking out every single move he made, every word he said, he was useless. But there was something there, something he needed to see. Something he needed to understand if he was going to become the hunter he’d been before.

            The cold water ran down the back of his neck—

            Sam flashed.

            Darkness. His own heartbeat. Those were the only things that existed. He felt himself scrabbling at something so slippery and icy beneath him, it felt like it was wet. He dragged himself to his feet.

            “Dean?”

            A soft chuckle reached out to him from the shadows. “Sam. How many times do I have to tell you? Your brother can’t hear you.”

            Sam pressed his back against something solid. He was gasping for air, feeling like an iron cuff had closed around his throat. Struggling for composure, he spoke again, softly, almost frantically: “Dean, please…”

            “Sam. Shh.” Something was forming in the darkness in front of him—a face, a head that didn’t seem to have a body. “Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?”

            His voice was gone. Sam sank back down. _Don’t...don’t, please…_

He was beyond his breaking point. He was raw and laid open, ripped apart. He was done fighting.

Lucifer grabbed Sam’s chin in one hand. “I thought you would’ve realized, Sam. He was hurting us. He wanted to kill you. I had to put an end to it.”

            Sam glared at him. “I stopped you.”

            “Oh, you did.” Lucifer nodded sympathetically. “But for your brother, I’m afraid it was too late. Understand that I didn’t want to do it, Sam. I didn’t want to hurt either of you. But it had to be done.”

            “Shut up…”

            “I had to stop him.”

            “ _Shut up_!”

            “Sam.” Lucifer knelt before him. “Your brother is dead. We killed him together—we broke him apart.” Lucifer shook his head. “He never recovered from what you did.”

            Sam’s fist smashed the mirror, showering glass shards and spitting blood across his knuckles. A drumfire of pain slammed into his head; Sam’s bloodstained hand gripped at nothing and swept down the wall as he sank with his back to it and grabbed his hair with one hand. Paralyzed by the white wash of pain clamoring in his brain, he closed his eyes and prayed for it to end.

            It didn’t. Instead, the heat spread from his head down to his shoulders, across his arms, grabbing hold of his stomach. He heaved and vomited across the floor, then slumped back against the wall.

            He couldn’t move. His phone was on the bed. He was having an aneurysm; even cracking his eyes open whipped pain like a gunshot into his head. He squeezed his eyes shut again and did the only thing he could think of: he yelled.

            “ _Castiel_!”

            He heard movement through the ringing his ears, a low voice mutter, “My God.”

            Then nothing.

            Sam didn’t know how long he sat there, the pain getting worse, the fire wrapping around his body. More than once he dragged himself by force of willpower away from the edge of that place where Lucifer was, from the things the Devil had said to him. The fire thrashed across his body, dragging hot tears from his eyes, tears he couldn’t fight back—tears of pain and grief, like New Harmony in Indiana, like the Mystery Spot, like watching his dad die all over again.

            _Your brother is dead. We killed him._

 _He never recovered from what you did_.

            Something hit the door. “Sam! Open the damn door! Sammy!”

            He gasped out a breath and tried to move his hand from his head, but that simple action alone made the shrieking pain between his ears that much more powerful. The next thing he knew, the door was unlocked and he could hear someone talking—

            “Sam? What the hell? Why didn’t you answer the door?”

            The sound of another voice did nothing for this pain that defied all reason. Sam tightened his fingers in his hair and choked down bile. “Can’t move.”

            A hand closed over his arm. “Dammit, Sammy. C’mere.”

            When the haze cleared a bit, he was lying on his back on the bed; he could feel the fever raging in his body, the hellfire curling around his limbs.

            “Turn off the light.”

            The weight on Sam’s chest lessened. “Is that Cass?”

            “It’s me.”

            Sam tried to tell him how close he was to the edge, how the darkness was reaching out for him—Hell was right here, it was in the room with them, it was tearing him apart and sucking him back down. When he squinted his eyes open for a brief second, he saw Castiel leaning over him…and over the angel’s shoulder, arms crossed, looking down at him sidelong, was Lucifer.

            Sam opened his mouth to warn them, but the words didn’t come. And then Castiel faded, and only Lucifer was left.

            “Come on, Sam.” The Devil reached out for him. “Time to come home.”

 

[R~L]

 

            When Sam opened his eyes, the world had tipped on its side. His mouth tasted like something had died stuck between his teeth and every muscle ached. He felt drained, tired, the way his body did when he’d had the flu, which had only happened once when he was sixteen. His head still hurt, but at least he felt like the fever had abated. He was just dangerously thirsty.

            Sam hauled himself up onto one elbow and groaned; the ratcheting, blinding pain that’d immobilized him in the bathroom was now just a dull roar, nothing a few aspirin couldn’t kill. He threw the covers off and sat up, gripping his head in his hands until the world stopped spinning.

            The door opened. “Sam?”

            “Hey, Dean.” Sam said tiredly, resting his wrists on his knees. He knew what was coming: the lecture of the century, defying every tongue-whipping he’d ever gotten from his father. Nevermind the progress he’d made with Dean in being able to make his own mistakes, accept the consequences and live with them. He was about to get torn a new one the size of the Grand Canyon, and he couldn’t blame his brother for it in the slightest.

            Dean sat on the opposite bed and looked at him. “How’re you feelin’?”

            “Like hell.” Sam admitted. “How long was I out?”

            Dean shrugged. “’Bout a day. I gotta say, that fever was worryin’ me.” He looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “Guess it worked itself out, though.”

            The silence stretched on and on until Sam started to feel it needling its way under his skin. “What, that’s it?”

            Dean gave him a classic I-Have-No-Idea-What-The-Hell-You’re-Insinuating look. “What, was there somethin’ else you wanted to talk about?”

            Sam scoffed. “Dean. You know what happened in there. I…scratched that wall. I kinda figured you were gonna read me the riot act.”

            “Don’t really see the point.” Dean shrugged again. “I’m not mad, Sam.”

            All right. This was worse than a lecture. “No offense, Dean, but the last time you said that, I ended up locked in Bobby’s panic room detoxing from demon blood.”

            “That’s not gonna happen this time.”

            “Well, gimmie _something_ , Dean. ’Cause right now, this whole…go with the flow thing is kinda creeping me out.”

            Dean didn’t answer. Sam looked away, frustrated.

            “Cass was here last night.” Dean said suddenly. Sam just looked at him, waiting. Dean rubbed his face in his hands, then got to his feet and paced to the far wall. “Look, Sam. We knew this wouldn’t be easy, all right? When I asked Death to cram that soul back inside you, I knew we’d have a hell of a hard time keeping you alive.”

            “So why’d you do it?”

            Dean swung around to face him. “Is that even a _question_?”

            Sam shrugged. “Cass told me everything, Dean. He said I was a better hunter—stronger, faster. I got the job done. And I wasn’t scared. Of _anything_. Tell me how that’s worse than this.”

            Dean leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Cass told you _everything_ , huh?” He nodded slowly. “He tell you how you let a vamp turn me? Or about the time you almost _killed_ Bobby?”

            Sam winced. He’d been guarding himself against that for days. “Maybe you shoulda killed me, Dean.”

            Sam saw his brother stiffen.

            The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back with a throbbing jaw and Dean leaning over him, livid, looking ready to throw a second punch.

            “Don’t you say that to me, Sam.” Dean snarled. “After everything we’ve been through? I went to Hell for you!”

            “So did I.” Sam replied quietly.

            Dean loosened up and stepped back. “Sam, doin’ this job, with you and with dad, I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen moms stab their kids. I’ve seen kids eat their parents. People grow old or die young. Natural order, right?” Sam, rubbing his jaw, sat up and nodded. “That’s how people like the Campbells work. Somethin’ you may have forgotten? We’re _Winchesters_.”

            That got a smile out of Sam. “Blessing in disguise?”

            Dean almost smirked. “Changes every day.”

Sam stood up. “I could use a drink. We got any aspirin left?” He headed for the duffel bag on the chair and Dean grabbed his arm, pulling him around and looking him in the eye. It still amused Sam a little bit, even after all these years, that he had to look down a little bit to meet his brother’s gaze. “Something on your mind, Dean?”

            Dean let go. “Outside pocket on my bag.”

            “Jerk,” Sam muttered under his breath as he went for the medicine. Dean smirked and unwrapped the rest of a leftover burger that was sitting on the nightstand.

            The tinny strains of Dean’s ringtone pierced the sudden silence. Dean pulled out his phone and accepted the incoming call. “Bobby?”

            Sam threw down the pills with a gulp of room-temperature water from one of the complimentary bottles beside the television and went to boot up the laptop. By the time he’d made it to the Google homepage, Dean was standing behind him in full-on running banter mode with Bobby.

            “Yeah, all right, whaddya want me to do, buy the bitch some flowers? Something tells me a ghost like her wouldn’t exactly appreciate the sentiment.” Sam heard the buzz of Bobby’s reply through the speaker that Dean left turned up too loud. “She’s shut up like a steel trap.” Pause. “Cass thinks it’s more than a demon behind this.” Another pause. Dean pulled the phone away from his ear, clicked a button and set it down on the table. “You’re on speakerphone.”

            “Sam, you there?”

            Sam glanced at his brother, then shifted closer to the phone. “Yeah, Bobby, it’s me. What’ve you got?”

            “Dean told me last night that you smelled somethin’ on those dead bodies. Can you tell me what it was, _exactly_?”

            Sam frowned, perplexed. “Yeah. The body smelled dead…I mean, _really_ dead. Like it’d been sitting out roasting in the sun for a few weeks.”

            “But the police pulled it outta the bay?”

            “That’s what Lidya said.”

            “Dead body smell.” Bobby repeated slowly. “You boys notice any mercurial weather patterns out there?”

            “Other than the fact that it’s friggin’-ass hot in the beginning of December?” Dean asked loudly.

            “Makes sense.” Bobby said. “Aw, son of a bitch.”

            “What?” Sam leaned both elbows on the table. “What is it, Bobby?”

            “You ain’t figured it out yet?” Bobby sounded incredulous. “ _Think_ , Sam. Bad weather mojo, dead body smells outta place, hell, I’ll bet most of the murders happened at night.”

            It hit Sam like an electric shock. “Right! Crap, I can’t believe I didn’t see that before. The, the way people’s memories were screwed up, the burn marks, the obsession with Isabelle Pole when she was still around—that was this thing getting inside their heads.”

            “Wait, wait. Ghosts don’t control people’s minds, Sam.” Dean said skeptically.

            “That’s because it’s not a ghost. And it’s not a demon.” Sam twisted around in the chair to look at Dean. “Isabelle was a Draugr.”

            “Bingo.” Bobby said. “Nasty little cusses can Shapeshift, control the weather, drive people crazy with their eyes.”

            “Like the people in the bar?” Dean asked grimly.

            “They’re dream-walkers, too.” Bobby said. “Just another pretty little way they can get in your head and drive ya crazy.”

            “Could they manipulate peoples’ memories?” Sam asked.

            “You tell me. I’ve heard of dream-walkers doin’ it before.”

            “All right, we get it, this chick’s a badass. Think we should ask Cass for help?” Dean asked, pacing like a caged lion behind Sam’s chair.

            “Forget Castiel, that feathery jackass is already in over his head.” Bobby said dismissively. “Look, I normally save these things for a kind of last resort, but we’re down to the wire, here. You boys are riskin’ your own lives and the lives of every hunter as long as that Draugr’s on the loose. And believe me, it’s only gonna get worse.”

            “Yeah, tell us somethin’ we don’t know.” Dean snapped.

            Sam gave him a beseeching look. “Bobby, tell me you’ve got something.”

            “Oh, I got somethin’. You boys ain’t gonna like it, either.”

            “We got a choice at this point?” Dean stopped pacing and crossed his arms again.

            “There’s a ritual you can perform.” Bobby said. “Bring the Draugr in and trap her, get her talkin’.”

            “Uh, okay?” Dean rocked forward a bit. “What makes this a bad plan, exactly?”

            “You forget that things ain’t exactly right in the world, boy?” Bobby asked. There was an expectant silence. “Here, lemee spell it out for ya: _total anarchy, idjit_!” Bobby all but yelled the last three words and Sam sat back from the buzzing speaker. “Hell’s in chaos, demons runnin’ loose everywhere, you got monsters all outta sorts topside and from what I hear, Heaven ain’t in a picnic basket these days. You go up against the Draugr and find out she’s made a few friends since Purgatory opened, and that’s it. You boys may end up with a fight on your hands.”

            “Okay, so we fight a few badass monsters, or we let this Draugr thing ice a bunch of hunters? Not much of a contest, Bobby.”

            “Watch it, Dean. You can act cocky all ya want, but you ain’t faced anything like this before. This thing can walk in on your dreams, sit on your chest and crush the life outta you.”

            “Then why hasn’t she?” Dean demanded. “I wanna know why these creeps keep sparin’ our lives.”

            “My guess is, someone went after this gal before and knocked her down a few notches. Draugrs take a while to yank themselves back together after you cut their heads off. Hell, she probably ain’t even corporeal yet. But you don’t got a lotta time. She gets a body and it’s all over. We’re talkin’ dark times in the middle of the day, serious shape-shifting. Lore books say, people look into her eyes, they go kooky. That’s the deadline you two are up against.”

            Sam rubbed one hand on his forehead. “What would you do, Bobby?”

            “Oh, so _now_ you two want my advice?” Bobby snapped, and then he went quiet. “Trust your instincts. Last crazy thing I did, I ended up havin’ to barter my soul back from a demon. And you both know that ain’t no picnic.”

            “So you wouldn’t do it?” Dean asked.

            “I wouldn’t do it if I had some other choice.” Bobby said. “I gotta go, Rufus is callin’ me. Listen, you two think about this, all right? Call me back when you figger out what you wanna do.”

            “Thanks, Bobby.” Sam reached over and disconnected the call.

            “Looks like we’re outta options, Sam.” Dean said. “Few monsters try to screw with the ritual, we waste ’em. Just like old times.”

            Sam mulled it over. “Bobby’s right. We’re backed up against a deadline. We’re out of options at this point.”

            “Okay.” Dean nodded. “Let’s head over early, lay down a battle plan and make sure nothin’s hokey.”

            “Right.” Sam watched as Dean tossed the can of rock salt and both shotguns into the bag. “What else did Cass say?”

            Dean jerked the zipper shut. “What makes you think he said anything?”

            Sam smiled. “’Cause you get this look, Dean. After he’s been lecturing you.”

            Dean slung the strap of the bag of his shoulder. “He didn’t say anything. Just dropped in to help you out.” He grabbed his jacket, then stopped. “And to say goodbye.”

            “Wait. To say goodbye?” Sam got to his feet. “Where’s he going?”

            “Chasing down whatever slipped outta Purgatory before we shut the door.” Dean squinted out the window, then flicked a glance Sam’s way. “Him and a bunch of his angel buddies.”

            The thought gave Sam an uneasy feeling. “What, is he suicidal?”

             “Honestly, Sam, I’m not really sure where his head’s at. But we got bigger things to worry about.” Dean headed for the door. “Come on. You can give Bobby a call on the way.”

            Sam took a deep breath, sighed and followed his brother.

 

[R~L]

 

            “I gotta say, Sam, this is about the creepiest damn graveyard I’ve ever been to.” Dean said, tilting his head back to look up at the massive tree whose branches overshadowed the graves. “I mean, seriously? Why the hell do people even plant trees here? Not like the dead people need shade.”

            Sam rolled his eyes and tossed the duffle bag over the wrought-iron fence. “Graves are for relatives, Dean. Not for the deceased. So are the trees.”

            “Yeah, you’re right, everyone should be cremated.” Dean vaulted the fence effortlessly and grinned at Sam through the bars. “It’d make our job a hell of a lot easier.”

            “You got that right,” Sam scrambled over and leaped down onto the soft turf. “How long’ve we got?”

            Dean checked his watch. “’Bout three hours.” He dropped his arm and hitched the duffle bag higher onto his shoulder, glancing at the horizon that was already a bruise-blue. “You sure this is where Isabelle’s buried?”

            “Yep. I called five different cemeteries. Apparently her ex-husband killed her.” Sam said wryly. “In nineteen-oh-six.”

            “She’s pretty active for a dead chick.”

            “Draugrs turn each other with a bite. Maybe the husband was just trying to mate for life.”

            “So she killed him? Talk about ungrateful.”

            “I dunno, Dean. Sometimes these things just happen.” Sam nodded to his right. “Map says the Pole plot was this way.”

            “Awesome. Let’s get set up.”

            The cemetery was quiet, the gates latched to forestall grave robbers and the indecent that might fancy the excitement of an adventure into the realm of the dead. The brothers crossed the empty spaces between the headstones, passing a massive stone angel staring stoically into the night, a silent gargoyle with a chiseled face as peaceful as the bodies it guarded.

            “Like I said. Freakin’ creepy.” Dean shuddered dramatically.

            “Worse than the convent in Ilchester?”

            “Dude.” Dean cut an infamous Don’t-Go-There look his way. “We don’t talk about Ilchester.”

            Sam looked ahead with a smile. “Right.”

            Dean froze for a split-second, then hissed, “ _Sam_!” He grabbed Sam’s shoulder and shoved him down behind a headstone. Sam did his best to rearrange his lanky frame behind it and watched the thin cold blue beam of a flashlight splaying across the manicured grass. A few feet to his right, Dean was leaning his shoulder against the angel statue, sucking in his stomach. If Sam hadn’t been able to hear the night guard’s boots crunching across the gravel path feet away, he would’ve laughed.

Eventually the glare of the flashlight beam bounced away across the graveyard and the footsteps faded. Dean’s breath burst out and he straightened up, shaking it off. “Man. Who’d wanna work a place like this? _Alone_?”

            “Sure a lot of people would ask us the same thing.” Sam said; Dean reached down, grabbed his arm and hauled Sam to his feet.

            “We almost there?”

            “Actually,” Sam pointed his own flashlight and nodded.

            Isabelle Pole’s grave gleamed dully in the watery beam.

            Beneath the dappled shadows of moonlight spilling through the tree limbs, they unloaded the duffle bag, lining up cans of salt, weapons and shovels. Dean grabbed the salt and a can of spray paint and disappeared, leaving Sam to double-check the salt rounds in both guns and lay out iron crowbars and pokers and a knife of cold steel. By the time he’d finished, Dean was back, tossing the empty salt cans back into the duffle bag.

            “Y’think salt and a line of wards’ll be enough to keep out anything that comes sniffing around?”

            “Not the way Bobby tells it,” Sam sighed. The headache was back, prodding at his left temple this time. “Yeah, should be fine, Dean.”

            Dean cut a glance around the immediate area. “Super.” He crouched and checked his firearm. “What’s with the knife in the ice bucket, anyway?”

“I did some research. Apparently, Draugrs come back to life unless you cut their heads off with a cold knife, burn their bodies and scatter the ashes in a _large_ body of water.”

“All right, so the bitch shows up, we drop her, that’s the end of it.” Dean said.

“Might not be that easy.” Sam admitted. “Only a real hero can get the jump on a Draugr.”

Dean blinked at him. “Sam. Are you implying I’m not a hero?”

Sam looked down and tried to fight off a grin, to no avail. Still smiling, he looked back up at Dean. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“Damn straight. And when I ice this freak, you owe me a cheeseburger.” Dean straightened. “All right, how much longer we got?”

            Sam checked his watch. “Ten minutes.” He got to his feet and tucked his firearm into the waistband of his jeans. “Want me to take a sweep?”

            “Yep. I’ll lay down the salt.”

            It felt good to take a walk, clear his head. Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head back to watch the spidery beams of moonlight splaying between tree limbs. Graveyards were haunting for most and even more so for Sam and Dean, knowing that at least one or two of these poor bastards were still running around as spirits. But tonight, despite what Dean had said, everything felt peaceful.

            And maybe that was why Dean seemed on edge. Peaceful was usually the precursor to something sinister—a spiritual attack, something nasty jumping out of the closet. Ghouls. Gremlins. Sam had felt peaceful two seconds before someone had plunged a knife into his back. Two seconds before Lucifer’s cage had opened. Two seconds before he’d found his father dead on the floor.

            Death rode a pale horse called peace, and it was a deep breath before a head-first dive into cold, black, in-over-your-head.

            Skin crawling now, hands itching for his gun, Sam did a perimeter sweep, keeping an eye out for the night-guard. Thankfully their paths didn’t cross, so there was no need to employ the use of force to keep this ritual under wraps. Shoulders hunched against the cold wind, Sam walked back to the tree, its pale bark reflecting the quivering light of a candle across the empty summoning circle.

            Sam stopped, frowning. “Dean?”

            “ _Boo_ , genius.”

            Sam jerked back a step and looked up; Dean was couched between intersecting branches of the tree, smug smirk fixed in place, swinging the flashlight between two fingers so that the beam cut erratically across Sam’s face, blinding him in spurts.

            “Dean,” Sam put up a hand to block the flashlight’s glare. “What’re you doing?”

            “Playin’ hide-and-seek with the guard, that’s what.” Dean swung his legs over the edge of the branch and hopped down. Straightening, he brushed crumbled bark and leaf litter off his shoulders. “Everything cool?”

            “Yep. We’re fine.”

            “Twenty minutes to go. Sounds like a great time for a beer.”

            They popped the bottles they’d brought with them and leaned against opposite sides of the tree. It was clear and starry out, the Baltimore smog not reaching quite this far, a distant splatter of rusty orange on the horizon showing the place where the low-hanging clouds refracted city lights.

            “You know what we oughta do when we get outta this one, Sam?” Dean asked suddenly. Sam leaned to look at his brother over his shoulder.

            “Nah. What?”

            “Find some open field as far away from this craphole as we can get, and set off some fireworks.”

            Sam laughed. “Dean. It’s almost Christmas.”

            “Freakin’ Scrooge.”

            “All I’m saying is, where are you even gonna find fireworks?”

            “I’ve got my resources, don’t worry about that.” Dean said haughtily. There was silence while Sam grinned into his beer, and then Dean added, quietly, “I’m sick and tired of chasing monsters, Sammy.”

            Sam rocked forward, then turned to face the tree; from what little of his brother he could see, it looked like Dean was leaning his full weight back on the wide trunk, head tilted back, staring up at the stars.

            “Dean, I,” Sam hesitated. “I thought we’d been through this. We can’t run from this life, y’know, we’ve tried. You with Lisa, me with Stanford, with…with Jess.” He shrugged. “Hunting, it’s in our blood.”

            “Yeah. Our blood.” Dean sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth. “Blood _we_ spill, Sam. It’s always _our_ blood out there. We bleed, and we fight, and we _die_ for people.”

            “Usually for each other,” Sam added.

            “You know what I mean.” Dean took a swig of his beer. “And what’s the friggin’ point, anyway? People keep dyin’, monsters keep pourin’ out of the pit. Angels and demons keep pokin’ each other with sticks. Nothin’ we do changes anything.”

            Sam braced his arm against the tree above his head and shrugged. “It’s just what we do, Dean. Y’know, it’s what dad did, it’s what mom did…Samuel, Bobby…hell, even Jo and Ellen. It’s just who we are.”

            “So what? We said screw fate before. We ran, Sam, and we beat ’em. Who says we gotta be like all the other hunters?”

            “Dean, this isn’t destiny. It’s just…it’s reality.”

            There was a lull that lasted a full minute. “Tell me you don’t wanna pack up the Impala, find someplace where the monsters can’t track us, and start over, Sam. Somewhere we can be…hell, normal. Or whatever it is we’re tryin’ for, here.”

            Sam rested his forehead against the crook of his elbow. “Yeah, Dean. That’s what I want.” He squeezed his eyes shut and then straightened up. “Doesn’t change anything.”

            “Yeah.” Dean chucked his beer bottle into the duffle bag. “All right, moment’s over. Let’s get this show on the road.”

            Sam picked up a shovel and tossed it to Dean; wordlessly, they started digging.

            Nothing happened and no sound broke the silence as they heaped back shovelfuls of dirt from the base of the headstone. Sam shed his jacket, then his plaid overshirt, and he was still sweating; but they kept at it, until they saw the coffin.

            The coffin, its top ripped open. Empty inside.

            Dean looked at Sam, and Sam felt the cold crawling down his spine like something was running its fingertips against the back of his neck.

            “Tell me it’s not behind me.”

            Dean’s answer was to whip out his firearm and take aim. “Touch him and you get to munch pure iron roungs this time, you ugly-ass bitch.”

            Sam sidestepped and twisted around to face it.

            The Draugr was standing several feet behind them, just outside the glow of the flashlights trained on the hole. She had the washed-out pallor of most spirits, but she wasn’t entirely intact; there was a kind of translucence to her and parts of her skin were coming off in wisps, vaporizing and reforming. Only her eyes were solid, and she was staring at him. Sam felt that same crawly feeling reaching out for him again; the last evil thing that had looked at him that way had nearly used Sam’s body to kill everyone he cared about—had succeeded in doing so with Bobby and Castiel, in fact.

            “Dean.” He drew his firearm very slowly from his waistband.

            “You wanna tell us why you’re wastin’ our buddies, sweetheart?” Dean demanded, stepping up to Sam’s side.

            The Draugr opened her mouth, her tongue wagging loosely; she took a step forward, eyes pinning Sam to the spot again.

            Gradually, inch-by-inch, Sam lowered his gun. “Dean, I don’t think she wants to hurt us.”

            “Every time I hear you say that, I end up gettin’ my ass thrown against a wall.”

            “She had the jump on us, Dean. Why didn’t she take it?”

            The Draugr straggled a few feet closer and despite his growing conviction that they weren’t in immediate danger, Sam fixed his sights on her again. She stopped.

            “So my brother thinks you’re here for a little monster-on-hunter chat.” Dean said, brows raised. “Start talkin’.”

            The Draugr opened her jaws wide and didn’t move. Dean’s patience broke and he barged forward, jamming the barrel of the gun in her face.

            “Start talkin’ or I waste you, how about that?”

            “Dean.” Sam forced his brother’s hand down. “I don’t think she can talk on her own yet.” He nodded to the Draugr, whose tongue was hanging out again as though she was choking on something. “Remember what Bobby said? She still hasn’t pulled herself back together.”

            Dean frowned. “What do you want us to do?”

            She reached out for Sam and he flinched back; more insistently, the Draugr followed him and let two fingers hover an inch from his lips for an instant before they dissolved again. Sam stared into her depthless, pitiless eyes, and understood.

            “She wants to use me.”

            Dean blinked. “Come again?”

            “She wants to use me.” Sam straightened and the Draugr pulled her arm away. “She wants to use me as, uh, as a conduit.”

            “These freaks can do that?”

            “They can Shapeshift into smoke, sort of…collapse down into pure essence.”

            Dean tucked the gun back into his waistband. “All right, bitch, get inside me.”

            Sam swung a look his way. “Dean?”

            “No offense, Sam, but I got reamed the last time you let someone wear your skin. If anyone’s letting her get inside, it’s gotta be me.”

            “Dean.” Sam repeated. “Don’t do this.”

            “You let Luci in, right? My turn for self-sacrifice.”

            Sam grabbed Dean’s arm, spinning him half around. “That’s my point! We learned our lesson, Dean. No one gets inside us, right?”

            “Sure hope not.” Dean cracked. Sam gave him a classic, bitchfaced, I-Cannot-Believe-Your-Crap look, and Dean rolled his eyes. “You wanna find out what’s goin’ on around here or not, Sam? We just waste this chick and we never find out the history. We don’t know how big this is. We gotta know for sure.”

Sam took several deep breaths and let his eyes slide back to his brother’s face. “Be careful, Dean.”

“Always am.”

Sam shook his head and stepped back. Dean winked at him and turned away, spreading his arms wide.

            “Come at me, sister.”

            A rush of pale fog engulfed Dean as the remnant of Isabelle Pole collided with his body, slamming him back against the tree. Sam took a reactive step forward, then held himself back as his brother slumped. Dean stood frozen for a moment, head bowed and breathing hard, then slowly straightened up.

            “How’s it feel?” Sam asked anxiously.

            Dean’s head snapped up. “Kinda slimy.”

            Then his mouth opened and something poured out—a stream of babble that formed into words, Dean’s voice but higher-pitched, like his voice was being strung through a metal pipe, scratching its way out.

            “Hunters. You’re both hunters.”

            Sam recovered from the shock of hearing that simpering, nasally voice coming from somewhere down his brother’s throat. “That’s right. I’m Sam Winchester, you’re,” He tilted his head and fought back a smirk. “Well, you’re inside my brother, Dean.” Dean gave him a Bite-Me-Dude look, which effectively showed that he was still conscious of himself, as Sam went on. “We came here because of the hunter bodies. You know about that, don’t you?”

            Another stream of babble that took on words: “Of course I know. I killed them.”

            Sam blinked, opened his mouth, then shut it with a frown. “All right, not exactly the honesty I was expecting…”

            “They did this to me.” Isabelle hissed. “The hunters.”

            “Made you into a Draugr?” Sam asked. “Or left you to reform? That’s not…typically a hunter’s method. We sorta tend to,” He shrugged and almost winced. “Burn the bodies?”

            “It was a hunter!” Isabelle spat, and then Dean shut his jaw and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, blinking.

            “You good?” Sam asked.

            “Yeah, just tastes a little funny.” Dean said in his normal voice; he shook his head and opened his mouth again, working his jaw slightly.

            “Isabelle?” Sam said, his eyes flicking from his brother’s face to the tree behind him, watching their shadows rising like giants against the trunk. “You could’ve killed me and Dean when we dug up your grave. So what’s your angle?” He paused. “I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from, here.”

            “All hunters deserve death.” Isabelle murmured. “All men deserve to die. But he deserves it the most of all.”

            Sam rocked forward a step, staring earnestly at the thin stream of vapor issuing from Dean’s mouth. “ _Who_ deserves to die, Isabelle?”

            Dean leaned toward him slightly, the answer trickling slow and thick out of his mouth like blood. “ _Marik_.”

            “Marik.” Sam sank back on his heels and a very Dean-appropriate wisecrack of, _wasn’t that guy from the Yu-Gi-Oh! series?_ flashed in his mind. He chose to let it slide. “He killed you because your husband turned you into a Draugr?”

            Dean’s eyes cut swiftly to Sam’s face, and Sam was eerily unsure whether that warning look came from his brother or from Isabelle.

            “He deserves to die.”

            “All right.” Sam switched gears, taking that warning to heart. “You’re upset, you want to bring this man to justice, I can understand that. Believe me, I can. But taking revenge on innocent hunters isn’t going to get you anything you want.”

            “No hunter is innocent!” The voice shrieked and exploded from Dean’s mouth. “You are all the same!”

            “Listen.” Sam held up both hands. “Let us burn your bones, lay you to rest…then we’ll find Marik and deal with him. We’ll make sure he gets punishment, all right? For whatever he did to you. I swear.”

            “The word of a hunter isn’t worth the salt you use to ward off spirits.”

            Sam dropped his hands. “Then why not kill us?”

            The look that Dean honed in on Sam was so intent, so imploring, that he knew it wasn’t his brother this time. “Other hunters, I can touch. I can kill them.” Isabelle shook Dean’s head. “Not Marik. As long as he lives, I can never regain my form.”

            “Why not?” Sam asked gently. “Something’s stopping you.”

            “He is a hunter!” Isabella snapped. “He has his ways!”

            “All right, all right, let’s take it easy.” Sam urged. “You’ve been in Essex for fifty years, right? Is Marik still here?”

            “He’s here.” Isabelle said. “I can feel him.”

            “But you can’t get to him.”

            “That _is_ what I said.”

            “Look, I’ll make you a deal. Okay? Give me and my brother two days to find Marik and get his side of the story.” Privately, Sam knew the first thing he would ask this Marik person, _if_ they could find him, was how to make Isabelle whole again so that she would incinerate properly. He could feel the danger emitting from her like a vibe, something the EMF reader couldn’t pick up but that he could feel thrumming in his ribcage. They needed to get out. Now.

            “Two days.” Isabelle echoed. “That is too long.”

            “Cut us some slack, Isabelle. Please. This hunter won’t be easy to find.”

            She stared at him through Dean’s eyes, emptied of all emotion except for a black flicker in their depths. “Swear that you will help me. Swear that you will help me _kill_ him wherever he stands, and you will have your two days.”

            Sam lifted his chin and stalled, giving himself time to think. “I can’t do that. Look, I’m sorry. I wish I could. But until I hear Marik’s story, I can’t promise anything.”

            Dean’s chest rose in a deep breath that, to Sam, seemed to last forever. “Well. You’ve given me what I want, anyway.”

            Sam’s head twitched to one side, a reflexive movement of shock, because those words usually meant pain was coming, and fast. “Excuse me?”

            Isabelle raised Dean’s hand and scratched his short brown hair. “This body will serve my purpose.”

            Sam raised his firearm. “I don’t think so.”

            Dean’s lip curled in a truly frightening snarl. “Go ahead. Shoot.” Then he shook his head, hard, and jammed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Sammy…”

            “Dean?”

            “Sam, _go_!” Dean’s eyes squinted shut. “She’s not letting up.” He gripped his hair in one hand. “Get outta my head, bitch!”

            Sam almost lowered the gun, not sure what to do, feeling like the ground was breaking up under his feet.

            “Sam!” Dean said again, half-panicked.

            “I’m not going _anywhere_ , Dean!”

            Dean looked at him for several thumping seconds, his eyes glistening with the struggle of pushing Isabelle out of his body, mouth jerking to one side in a slash of pain. Then he sank to his knees.

            Sam dropped the gun and went for his brother, grabbing his shoulder, trying to pull him around. “Dean, look at me!”

            Dean’s head snapped up. “I know what you did.”

            A shockwave of spiritual force slammed Sam back against the stone angel, cracking his spine so hard he saw stars. He slumped, dazed, into the grass, and Dean came to stand over him. Sam shook the blinking silver lights from his line of sight and felt a hand grab his chin; Dean sat on Sam’s legs, pinning them to the turf, and yanked his head up so that their eyes met. But it wasn’t his brother Sam saw—it was something soulless and dark. Something that made him think of looking into a mirror two months ago.

            “Word gets around,” That tinny imitation of Dean’s voice scraped against Sam’s ears. “You were the greatest _hunter_ walking the face of the earth. No ties to anyone. No family. Just a weapon, and…no soul.” Dean’s free hand came to rest over Sam’s heart. “You think you have it back, don’t you? But you’re still mad, just like everyone else.”

            “What?” Sam muttered; he was starting to feel the individual places where the sharp stone had dug into his back.

            “Look at me, Sam.” She sang.

            Sam knew better; he knew what Bobby had said, he knew that one look into a Draugr’s eyes would steal his sanity. He squeezed his eyes shut.

            “Hmm. You’re smarter than the others. Those men who played with fire and didn’t know how badly it could burn them.” Isabelle made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “So, then. What good are you to me?”

            She picked up Sam’s gun and pressed the barrel against his forehead. Then, in a silver streak of movement, she slammed the butt of the gun against his face.

            The first burst of pain opened a sieve of different agonies all across his body. Sam had a high pain threshold, almost as high as Dean’s, but taking this beating from a Draugr fifty years practiced in torturing her victims, he started to question it, all of it. He lost count of the number of times the gun cracked across his face, but eventually the world started slipping out of his grip, the flashes of red and white, gashes of pain, fading into black that feathered across his field of vision. He stopped fighting Dean’s stocky weight sitting on him, holding him down; his struggles were useless anyway. The first blow alone had been enough to disorient him. All he could smell was dewy grass and the rank stench of his own blood.

            And then there were hands grabbing his face, swiping the blood off, sitting him up so he could breathe again.

            “Sam? Sammy? Come on…Sam!” His head jarred back and forth. “Talk to me, dammit! Come on. Sammy!”

            He squinted his eyes open; against the dimming glare of the flashlights, Dean was staring at him, distressed, frantic again. Sam rocked his head back and forth to orient himself to his surroundings: the graveyard. Still the graveyard.

            “You with me?” Dean’s hands slid to Sam’s neck, steadying his head.

            “Gimmie the gun.” Sam said thickly. Dean hesitated, then pressed the firearm into Sam’s hand. Sam leaned his head back against the stone angel and blew a breath out through his lips, spewing blood from his face. “You got her?”

            “Yeah, for now.” Dean stood up and dragged Sam to his feet, steadying him. “Sam, get out of here.”

            Sam spat a glob of blood onto the grass. “I’m not leaving you to face this monster by yourself, Dean.”

            “Son of a bitch. You look like you got run over by a freakin’ tank.” Dean muttered. “ _Go_ , Sam. Just go, all right? I’ll catch up.”

            “Dean—”

            Dean slammed him in the chest, forcing him back a step. “Dammit, Sam, _go_!”

            Something gray and unfeeling slid briefly across Dean’s eyes. Sam shifted to regain his balance, gave his brother one last helpless glance, and turned away.

            A hand grabbed his shoulder, shoving him chest-first toward the tree. Sam raised the gun by reflex, but there was no need to defend against the Draugr essence controlling his brother’s body. Dean hurled himself sideways, smashing his head against the angel statue. He crumbled to the ground.

            “Dean?” Sam said softly. He didn’t move, waiting for his brother to stir; but Dean was out like a light, his body no longer useful to the essence inside of him. Sam waited for Isabelle to emerge—but she didn’t. Over fifty years of walking the world had made her patient, and she’d spent most of that time waiting for a body to channel her powers.

Dean couldn’t stay unconscious forever.

            Sam crouched by his brother, turned Dean over; his forehead was bleeding but not too badly.

            “I’ll find a way out of this.” Sam said. Then he crammed the duffle bag full, snitched the keys from Dean’s pocket and ran, vaulting the wrought-iron fence and shredding off strips of skin in the process, not stopping to let himself think until he’s started the Impala and put a few good miles between it and the graveyard. Then he coasted to the shoulder, killed the engine, slammed his flat hand against the steering wheel and swore.

            It didn’t do much to help his anger, and the anger was making his heart beat faster, pushing more blood out of his rutted face. Sam thumped his head against the window and watched his breath fog the glass.

            Monsters hadn’t been drawn to the graveyard, but what they had on their hands now was twice as bad. Isabelle hadn’t been able to exercise her full powers before, limited by what she could do in a semi-corporeal form; now she had a body under her control, something concrete that she could use to slip around and do whatever dirty work she’d been trying to do for fifty years. And that tattoo on Dean’s chest only protected against forced possession, and then only from demons—he’d let Isabelle in. And she was strong, stronger than Sam would’ve guessed. Not to mention, her hatred was making her stronger.

            Or something else was. Hadn’t Dean said that Castiel thought there was some other kind of influence going on here?

            Sam draped both arms over the steering wheel and rested his forehead on them. His headache was back like an earthquake sending boulders tumbling down, clattering inside his skull.

            One thought penetrated: if he sat here like this, he was going to bleed to death.

            Sam extricated his phone from his pocket, pulled out the card with it, and dialed.

            “Lidya?” He said as he pulled out smoothly back onto the highway. “It’s Sam. Sam Winchester.” Pause. “Listen, I need some help.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

_December 3 rd, 2011_

_Residence of Lidya Barons, Essex, Maryland_

 

Sam didn’t think the porch light did his blood much justice. He’d heard his dad referring to Chicago Bears fans bleeding blue and orange, but in this case it almost looked literal. He’d driven like the devil was chasing him, mopping blood out of his eyes every few minutes. He hurt. He was tired. And the porch light pooled around his feet and made his blood look like rust. He was out of his mind.

            The glass-plated door eased open. “ _Sam_?”

            He half-smiled, hands in his pockets, sheepishly. “Hey, Lidya.”

            “Oh, my God! What happened?” She flung the door wide and stepped aside to let him in. Sam slouched into the foyer, hoping he didn’t look as dizzy as he felt. He’d stumbled like a drunk from the Impala to the porch. “You were so vague on the phone!” She swung the door shut and stood gaping at him in her silk pajamas, hair undone. She looked good, Sam thought, and then berated himself. He really was delirious. “Sam?”

            “Look, it’s…kind of a long story.” Sam leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Are you going to help me or not?”

            Lidya looked aggrieved. “There’s a hospital a few miles from—”

            “I don’t do hospitals.” Sam interrupted gently. “Lidya, please. You’re the only person who would understand—” He broke off, grabbing for the right words. “What I am, y’know, how I ended up like this.”

            Lidya’s face softened and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Were you…were you working?”

            Sam pressed his lips together ruefully. “Yeah.”

            “Where’s your brother?”

            Sam shut his eyes. “Lidya, I’m kind of…”

            “Oh, right. Right, of course.” She stammered. “The kitchen is the last door on your left…just let me tell Richard what’s going on.” She headed for the stairs on Sam’s right, adding over her shoulder as she went, “Rowley doesn’t bite.”

            Sam pried himself from the wall and walked down the hallway, letting himself into a dim, high-ceilinged kitchen. Clicking toenails heralded a slim Dalmatian that came running to meet him. Sam sank to his knees and rubbed the dog’s ears, letting the motion sooth him. Unlike Dean, Sam had a soft spot for most canines.

            Lidya clicked the kitchen light on and Sam stood to face her, almost unbalancing himself. “All right, Sam. Let me see what we’re dealing with.”

            She sat him at the kitchen table and took a good long look at his face, shaking her head slowly until she started to look like an old bobblehead toy. “What happened to you? Did you get hit by a car?”

            “A gun, actually.” Sam said, then kicked himself for not thinking of some profound lie. Lidya blinked at him, and he sighed. “It was a gun.”

            Lidya took his face in her hands and started examining the separate jagged lacerations. “Someone beat you?”

            _Someone_. Or something. “You could say that.”

            “It wasn’t your brother, was it?”

            Sam laughed, just once. “Not exactly.”

            Lidya didn’t press the line of questioning. For a while everything was quiet apart from the hum of the kitchen fan and the sound of Rowley panting underneath the table. Finally Lidya stepped back.

            “Congratulations, Sam. You’re the proud owner of a broken nose and a fractured cheekbone.” She said. “I can patch up most of this, though.”

            “That would be great. Thanks.” Sam said, making an effort to smile.

            “Okay.” Lidya smiled back, nervously. “Just let me get my old nursing bag.”

            She returned with it in hand, looking more anxious than Sam felt. Her hands shook preparing the antiseptic and needle, and Sam watched with mounting apprehension as the drowsy light reflected off the needle’s point.

            “How, uh…how long were you in nursing, again?” He asked.

            “A few years. I was premed.” Lidya glanced at him. “I’ve never done anything like this before—not on a real patient.”

            Sam reached out and grabbed her wrist to steady it. “You’ll do fine.”

            She took a deep breath, nodded, and went to work on his face.

            Sam honestly hated the feeling of being stitched shut, but it was better than bleeding, and head wounds bled a lot. While she worked, Lidya talked; her constant stream of chatter helped focus him elsewhere, too. She told him about her years as a nursing student, about life as a medical examiner. Then, after a lull in the one-sided conversation as she worked delicately on his jaw, Lidya took a deep breath.

            “Want to hear something funny that I heard in nursing school? They say you don’t know a person any better than the color of their blood when you patch them up every day.” She met his eyes with a brief smile. “It’s why nurses sometimes share a bond with their patients, even though they’re not meant to.”

            Sam half-smiled, remembering the times he’d popped Dean’s dislocations back into place , the painful minutes he’d had to sit while his brother sewed up the wounds Sam couldn’t reach. Sometimes they’d both be hurting so much they couldn’t sleep, so they’d drown it all in alcohol and stories. Now the wounds went deeper than what needles and expert hands could fix.

            “Guess no one knows me better than my brother, then.” Sam murmured, and instantly wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

            Lidya didn’t seem to notice. “He patches you up?”

            Still half-smiling, Sam nodded. “All the time.”

            “He must be a good brother.”

            “He tries.” Sam met her glance for a second, then looked at the far wall and took a deep breath. “I know he does.” He dropped his gaze to the polished hardwood floor. “I know it’s not easy, being _my_ brother.”

            “Because of the hunting?” Lidya asked. She finished a row of stitches and started on the next cut. “Sam, I wasn’t…I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what did this. Did you and Dean try to stop it?”

            Sam hunted for a lie and realized he was too tired to build that house of cards right now. “We called it in, and…it took control of Dean’s body.”

            “That’s how all of this happened?” Lidya gestured vaguely to his face.

            “Yeah. The thing attacked me, Dean got it back under control. He, uh…he knocked himself out so I could get away.”

            Lidya patted antiseptic on his cheek and Sam winced. “He’ll be all right, Sam. Stubborn know-it-alls like that think they’re too good to die. Just ask my father-in-law.”

            “Yeah, well, he’d better be.” Sam said tiredly, closing his eyes as Lidya finished a deep but small tract on his cheekbone and moved on to his brow. “No, I know he is. Dean’s the strong one. Always has been. He’ll make it.”

            “It sounds to me like you have total faith in him.”

            “I didn’t used to.” Sam admitted. “But when…things were different…when it was me getting possessed…Dean never gave up on me. Not even when the person inside my head wanted to take him apart in pieces.” He snapped off that memory before it could lead places he didn’t want to go. “Sorry. Guess that’s a lot to dump on you.”

            “I don’t mind. Honestly, it amazes me that you two can still believe in each other, what with all of the… _possessing_ and bone-breaking and whatnot.” Lidya brought up a pair of scissors and snipped the thread. “Well, that’s all I can do for now. You’re by no means perfect, but you should be in the clear for infections if you let me treat that every couple of hours for the next day or so.”

            “Thanks.” Sam stood up. “But I really should be getting back to the hotel.”

            Lidya put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold on, Sam.” Her tone was so different that Sam actually stepped back and looked at her more closely. “I know I’m not part of…whatever insane world you and your brother and Bobby belong in. But if your brother’s not in control of himself…well, he knows where your motel is. All I’m saying is, you might be safer here.”

            Sam’s dual natures went to war with each other. John Winchester had instilled it in his boys from their early years that you never stayed in a place you hadn’t cased, found the exits for, mapped from top to bottom. You never stayed in a two-story house unless you were together, able to watch each other’s backs. And you didn’t get in too deep, too personal with the people nearby during a case. You only put them in danger.

            But hell if he wasn’t tired and sore and more than a little upset about this Draugr possessing his brother’s body. He wanted to sleep in a safe place with actual creature comforts, for once.

            “That’d be great.” He said. “Is there…some place I can—?”

            “Oh.” Lidya motioned with her head. “Is the guest bedroom all right?”

            “Uh, anywhere’s fine.” Sam said; he’d been optimistically hoping for a couch. “Listen, I appreciate you doing all this for me. I know…I don’t know you, you don’t know me, but…”

            “Listen, Sam.” Lidya put her nursing supplies back in her bag. “I love this town. You know? I love Essex. And I know Bobby Singer. He came through here working a case when I was…eleven? Twelve? He saved my life. I owe him a favor.” She shrugged with a wry smile. “Anything I can do to help him, I will. Even if it means taking care of his boys.”

            “Well, Dean and I, we’re not exactly…” Sam began, and then he broke off. “Yeah. Well, like I said, I appreciate it.”

            He followed Lidya upstairs, Rowley trotting on his heels, to the guest bedroom. It was simple, just a large, plush bed in one corner and a chest of drawers beside the door. Sam stepped inside, listening for anything strange, waiting for a shift in weather patterns right outside the window, something rattling on the walls.

            Nothing. Wherever Dean was, he wasn’t here.

            “Well, I’ll just let you sleep, then.” Lidya said awkwardly. “If you wake up before Rich and I do and your stitches hurt, there’s Advil in the kitchen cabinet above the sink.”

            “Thanks, Lidya.” Sam said, meeting her gaze and hoping he conveyed his gratitude with his own. Lidya nodded, hugging the nursing bag to her chest, and shut the door on her way out. Rowley trotted over and hopped up on the bed.

            Sam sat on the edge, the comforter sinking beneath his weight, realizing how good it felt to be in a real house, not just a cheap motel, and not Bobby’s deathtrap hideaway immersed in the Dead Sea of automobiles. It felt normal, the kind of normal he’d run away to Stanford for. In fact, Lidya reminded him of Jess in some ways.

            The thought popped in inadvertently, stalling him out; he didn’t think about Jessica much these days. Tried not to remember Lucifer wearing her face. But it felt close tonight. All of the memories did, in a place like this, how couldn’t they? It was a flashback of his old life.

            Rowley swiped a cold wet nose on Sam’s elbow and Sam rubbed his ears again. This taste of normal was all he would get for a while. Having a former premed student to tend to his wounds properly was a luxury, but this time next week he’d be back to ramshackle hotels and no one but Dean to finish the last stitches he couldn’t do by himself, with dental floss and whiskey and a whole lot of blood and pain that Sam had learned to live with. Anything other than that was just a pipe dream.

            He fell back on the three layers of pillows and let that pipe dream engulf him.

 

[R~L]

 

            The morning brought reality rushing back in.

            Sam woke with a stinging fissure of pain in every stitched-shut gash, and stumbled downstairs for the Advil. By the time it kicked in, the suburban house felt exactly the way it was supposed to: eerily placid, too quiet, and too exposed. No hex-bags, no salt that he could see, not even on the table. No iron, nothing genuine silver. No guns. Nothing that would be useful to him if something came stalking at the door.

            Sam lifted two small bottles of disinfectant and a package of butterfly bandages for his nose and cheekbone from the nursing bag in the hall closet, and left money for reimbursement and a note for Lidya, thanking her again and promising to stay in touch.

            The drive to the motel was quiet, but an improvement on the previous night, when he’d been choking on his own blood and had had the worst hell of a time trying to see out the windshield. Sam cruised past the motel several times to case it, and saw no sign of Dean. Equal parts relieved and disappointed, he parked the Impala and slid out. As soon as he was safe in the motel room, he laid out a strip of salt over the doorway and grabbed his phone.

            It picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”

            “Hey, Bobby, it’s me.”

            Twenty-some-odd years of being babysitter, advisor and surrogate father to the Winchester boys had taught Bobby something of their different tones. “The hell did Dean do this time?”

            Sam cracked a humorless smile at that. “Uh, let the Draugr possess his body.”

            Long pause. “I’ll strangle that stupid son of a bitch.”

            “Join the club. We have shirts.”  Sam hesitated. “Bobby, I think something is huge is going down. The Draugr, Isabelle Pole, she needed Dean’s body for something. Something she couldn’t do when she was trying to pull herself back together. It has to do with a hunter named Marik. That’s all I got.”

            “Gimmie your address. I’m flyin’ out there today.”

            That was a comfort and a cause for concern. If Bobby thought the situation was serious enough to involve himself directly, then Sam was fairly sure they were walking the tightrope again. The last time Bobby had been in the field with them had been when they went to face Lucifer.

            At least, that was all Sam could remember.

            He parroted off the address from the motel brochure on the bedside table, and heard crashing and swearing through the static on the Blackberry as Bobby crammed together the essentials for travel. “You got all the weapons ya need?”

            “Salt, guns, iron, you name it.” Sam sighed, sinking onto the bed and pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

            “Good. Saves me a hell of a lot of explainin’.” Sam heard a door slam in the background. “All right, I want details, Sam.”

            Sam picked his head up to stare at the far wall. “There’s not that much to explain, Bobby. We dug up the grave to draw her in the way you told us, uh, Isabelle showed up, we talked to her. She needed a host to communicate. Dean volunteered.”

            “Dumb bastard.” Bobby grunted. “What the hell’d he do that for? I _warned_ him what her kind can do!”

            “He did it so I wouldn’t have to.”

            The silence overlapped itself. Sam could almost hear Bobby rolling his eyes. “Boy never does know when to let things be.” A car door slammed on his end. “Mighta been right in this case, though.”

            Sam didn’t miss his meaning. “Bobby, I got control, right? I got Lucifer back in the cage. I could’ve handled this.”

            “Mighta escaped your mind, idjit, but the last time you let someone wear you to the prom, Castiel and I ended up _dead_.”

            Sam winced. As if he could ever escape that. As if he didn’t still remember the sound of his own screams, battering against the cage of his mind as Lucifer used him to murder his friends; didn’t remember the feeling of Castiel’s blood showering his face, the ricochet of popping vertebrae as Bobby’s neck snapped.

            “Any case,” Bobby went on when the silence grew awkward. “Dean’s not you and you ain’t him. For one damn reason or another, this ain’t his forte. So he’s got you and me to find him a way out of this. You with me, Sam?”

            Sam’s mouth jerked into a dry smile. “Bobby. Do you really have to ask?”

            “Look, kid, hunter protocol makes Dean a target, not a victim. He let the essence in, makes him accountable for whatever she does while she’s wearin’ him. You follow me?”

            Sam got to his feet and started pacing, finally stopping with one hand on his hip, staring out the window. “Well, to hell with the hunter _protocol_ , Bobby, this is _Dean_ we’re talking about!”

            “All right, all right, pipe down, I know _that_.” Bobby snapped. “I’m just checkin’ we’re on the same page here.” Sam heard a clunk of a car shifting gears. “Be there in a few hours.”

            “Okay.”

            “Sam? Try an’ stay outta trouble till I get there.”

            Sam smiled. “You got it.”

            It wasn’t until Sam hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed that he realized Bobby had been testing him, checking to see if Sam would follow protocol instead of gut instinct, choose his own agenda over his brother.

            Suddenly exhausted, Sam lowered himself onto the bed. He considered calling on Castiel, but judging from what Dean had told him, their friend would be out of reach. Which left him with nothing to do but sit and wait.

            And research.

           

[R~L]

           

A knock at the door pulled Sam from his study on all things Draugr possession at quarter after seven. Eyes strained, hungry and stiff from sitting on the metal-spring mattress with the laptop on his knees all day, Sam went to answer it, joints popping like firing pistons. His relief at seeing Bobby on the other side almost made him physically lightheaded, though that could’ve been the side-affect of not eating all day.

            “You gonna stand there staring at me, kid, or you gonna let me in?” Bobby asked.

            “Uh, yeah, sure, come in.” Sam stepped aside and Bobby barged past him, dragging a duffle bag filled with blocky objects. When Sam swung the door shut and turned to face him, there was a palpable air of uneasiness that stopped him from going to hug Bobby. “How, uh, how was your flight?”

            “You really wanna play that formality card with me, Sam?” Bobby scoffed, dumping the bag on the empty bed. “Things ain’t right between us, we both know that. Let’s forget about that for now and help Dean.”

            Relieved, Sam’s reply was a bit more enthusiastic than he intended: “Perfect. Great. Um, I found…” He walked to the laptop and turned it toward Bobby. “This website.” He clicked into his bookmarked tabs. “Draugrs are like revenants, but if you chop off their heads and don’t finish the job, their essence comes back. If you let it in, it’s like,” He crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “Like cramming two souls into one body.”

            He felt Bobby’s stare burning into his back, but ignored it until Bobby came to stand beside him and look at the page.

            “Well, that ain’t good.” He rubbed a hand along the stubble on his neck. “Bodies aren’t built for housing two souls. One’s gotta take backseat to the other.”

            Like Sam had to Lucifer, when he could only see himself reflected in a mirror. “That’s the only good info on Draugr essence that I could find. Most of it was just fansites and debunked rumors.” Sam shut the laptop and sat beside it. “You got anything?”

            “I did some digging on the flight over.” Bobby unzipped the duffle and let books spill out—half a dozen thick volumes crammed with odds-and-ends notes. He picked up one and tossed it to Sam. “There’s a lotta lore about Draugrs, lemee tell ya. Same powers as witches, for the most part. This one could do pretty much anything while she’s inside your brother.”

            “What I can’t figure out is, what’s keeping her from pulling herself back together?” Sam opened the book on his knees to the page Bobby had bookmarked.

            “My guess is, the dumb bastard who killed her the first time didn’t finish the job. He’s probably keeping some part of her guarded—I mean really heavily guarded so she can’t use it to regenerate. So she’s stuck in limbo.”

            “Like in an iron box.” Sam suggested.

            “More’n likely.” Bobby said. “What’s she holding out for, though? Killin’ as many hunters as she can?”

Sam handed the book back. “She said she couldn’t get to the hunter that killed her, some guy named Marik. Anything in the lore about that?”

            Bobby’s lips twisted in a frown as he mulled it over. “Could be Marik’s the one holdin’ on to a piece of her. If he’s hidin’ behind some kinda iron shield, no way she’ll even get close to him.” He growled a sigh. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

            “Great. What do you want me to do?”

            “Get us some food, first of all. I can hear that tummy of yours snarlin’ from over here.” Bobby popped open the first book. “I’ll keep hittin’ the books.”

            Sam sat waiting for further marching orders, but Bobby didn’t move. Finally Sam got to his feet and grabbed his jacket, heading for the door.

            “Sam.” Bobby said without looking up, and he stopped. “Look, we’ll get Dean back, all right? And then you and me, we need to have a chat.”

            Sam swallowed. “Gonna throw me in the panic room again, Bobby?” The question felt stiff and the next tasted rotten. “Or tell me to lose your number?”

            “Maybe we need to have this talk right _now_.” Bobby started to get up and Sam held up both hands.

            “Wait, look, I’m sorry, all right? Hasn’t been an easy couple of days. We need to stop Isabelle before she does whatever she wants to do with Dean’s body.”

            “Right.” Bobby sat back down. “Talk can wait.”

            Sam didn’t feel himself breathing again until he was in the Impala. Pulling out onto the road, heading toward town, Sam realized with a punch of regret how much he missed being a normal hunter with normal hunter problems and responsibilities: working the case, finding the culprit, burning the bones or nailing the bump in the night. Not as Lucifer’s puppet, not a part of Azazel’s demon-army plan. He missed being Sam Winchester instead of the enemy’s chosen one, soulless, set apart, a vessel for all things evil, a blood-junkie. He missed being half of a team that saved people’s lives; hell, he even missed headaches and psychic visions. Better than a wall he couldn’t scratch without being flung into hell, living in that cage with Lucifer and Michael for what had felt like a whole day. A whole day of paralyzing, burning agony.

            He’d never realized how important being a Winchester was until he’d stained the family name. And now he felt like he’d do anything to clear that name again. But if he couldn’t patch things up with Bobby, was there _anything_ he could mend?

            Sam flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

            Hating the feeling of not knowing the answer to that question.

 

[R~L]

 

            A sleepy motel on a balmy autumn night. It wasn’t exactly a hunter’s style to return to the place where he had his name on the books, especially if he knew there was a vengeful creature afoot. Then again, that was what made it so much safer than anywhere else these days: it was against the hunter code to come back here at all.

            Slumped against the wall beside the soda machine, she watched the man scoping his surroundings as he walked to the car. Nearly half a century of being undead had made her wise to the idiocy of a hunter. Perpetually careful, holding on so tightly to their illusion of safety, it slipped straight through their fingers. She’d never seen it fail. She was good, in fact, she was legendary. No hunter had evaded her yet. And this one would be no exception.

            He got into his car and drove away, and she made her move; striding across the parking lot, relishing in the tingling feeling of the hard pavement under her feet. True, possessing a human body had its drawbacks: lack of speed, for one thing, and the inability to walk through walls. But after fifty years, feeling the world around her in more tangible ways than the wind passing through her semi-corporeal form, it was the greatest sensation she had ever known, that she ever _would_ know. Except for revenge. And the taste of blood. And the feeling of magical prowess coursing through her fingertips.

            Luckily enough for her, the host body carried an impressive lock-picking tool on his belt. She crouched at the door and fumbled through the motions of the thing, taking her time. Even if the hunter came back and by some stretch of the imagination, shot her, she wouldn’t be wounded. It would all fall on this hunter. He was hers, body and mind.

            Well, maybe not completely in mind. Right now, he was being a pain.

            “Got any idea what the hell you’re getting yourself into, bitch?”

            She moved to toss her hair out of her eyes, remembered that this was his body, not hers, and short brown hair didn’t toss very well. “Into a motel room, it looks like.”

            “Yeah, that’s cute. Keep actin’ like tough scary _Draugr_. See how far that gets ya.”

            “Enlighten me.” She fiddled with the lock pick.

            “All right. Hunters. Monsters. Not exactly drinking buddies. You take one step in that room and your ass gets toasted.”

            “Not mine.” She laughed. “Yours.”

            She felt his laughter inside her mind—his mind? “Man, it’s like you freaks are all cut out of the same two-dimensional piece of crap. You got no idea the things we can do to you, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try sneaking by.” He paused. “Actually, you’re damned either way.”

            “Keep talking.” She finally inserted the lock pick correctly and heard the smooth, satisfying click as the tumblers fell flawlessly into place. Everything was working flawlessly, as well it should, after several decades of planning. “It seems to be helping me glean your knowledge for how to pick locks.”

            That kept him quiet for a few minutes as she surveyed the dark room; the drapes were pulled shut on the wide front window and the place smelled musty.

            “When I get outta here,” His low voice in her head almost startled her. “I will tear you six ways from Sunday. You got that?”

            “Mmm, terrified.” She walked, running her hands over drapes and walls. “You know, you’re awfully inconsiderate, for a man in your position.’  
            “ _My_ position? I’m not the one doin’ the creep on a hunter’s room, sister.”

            “Aren’t you?” She walked into the bathroom and flicked on the light. “This looks like your face to me.”

            Days-old stubble, green eyes, surly expression on a mud-spattered, blood-stained countenance. She’d never get used to seeing a hated masculine face over her own feminine attributes, but it was an inconvenience she could deal with. So, just to taunt him, she let him out a bit—let him see himself.

            The expression in the reflection changed into something angry, something desperate. A caged animal look. And that was just what he was. “Let me the hell out.”

            “You sound like someone I heard about, once.” She rubbed her chin. “Let me think—oh, yes! _Sammy._ ” She dropped her arm and fixed a malevolent glare on his face in the mirror. “You know what the devil had him do, the people he killed? He was screaming to be let out, just like you are right now.”

            “The hell do you know about Sam?”

            “Oh, he’s the talk of the dark places. Soulless. _Conniving_. Lucifer’s little bitch.”

            “I’ll waste you, you dirt-sucking freak of nature.”

            “Why protect him, anyway? He almost let you die. Wouldn’t it be justice if I killed him in this body?” She cut a look toward the mirror. “Or maybe it should be the other way around. Maybe I’ll let him kill you, so right to the end, you’ll know he was stronger, and _better_ than you.”

            “Tell you what. When Sam gets you outta my head, I’ll end you with my bare hands. How’s that sound?”

            “Do you really think he still has your back?”

            The eyes glared pure hatred at her in the mirror. She laughed.

            “I thought not.”

            In the open front room of the motel, a key clicked in the lock. She stretched her stocky frame and flicked off the lights. “Action time.”

            She was lucky her host had dressed for the occasion; dark jeans, dark jacket, and when she’d finally shaken the body awake in the graveyard, she’d coated his skin in a thin layer of grime. It was easy enough to crouch in the bathroom doorway unseen and watch the man tossing his keys on the counter of the kitchenette.

            Anticipation saturated the air like a scent. So many ways she could kill him: toying with his mind. Pinning him down and staring into his eyes. Biting his throat, letting the rich warm blood spill out. She wasn’t picky, but she’d been setting this up for years, laying out the trap to draw the perfect hunter to her. And once this was over, she would have her own body back. Her own chariot to ride across the world. It had to be perfect, it had to be done _right_.

            She stood. “Marnie Evans.”

            He swung around and fired the black SigSaur clutched desperately in both hands.

            She anticipated, diving sideways, rolling up onto her feet and ripping a lamp from the wall as she went. She hurled it at his head; it glanced off his arm and he unloaded the clip into the wall next to her head while she ducked in the bathroom doorway.

            “Get the hell out of my place!” Gary Rigel bellowed.

            “I’ve been watching you!” She called from the doorway. “You know, your alias is incredibly lame. You could’ve come up with something much better.”

            “What are you doing back here? Where’s your partner?”

            “Sorry, he’s—”

            Something punched into her consciousness, a burst of unexpected strength from the other soul. Her grip stumbled and he pushed through, sending her reeling into the background. From a distance, she heard him speaking:

            “Rigel, hear me out, all right? She’s a damned Draugr, there’s this Draugr essence inside my head. She’s got some vendetta against hunters. Get outta here!”

            “Who do you think you’re foolin’, boy?”

            “Dammit, I’m serious, man! You can’t even look her in the eye! She’s a helluva strong spirit and she’s not goin’ anywhere, so unless you got some kinda ritual to get her out, you don’t stand a snowball’s chance!”

            “Well, wonderful for me.” Through a narrow window, she saw the man take aim. “But I’ll take whatever chance I have.”

            She grabbed hold and pushed her way back through, dropping to the floor as another spray of gunfire chewed through the wall. She crammed the soul back into its hideaway, blocking out his protests, and met the hunter head-on.

            She’d never skirmished before, and he was blockier and quicker than she was, burdened down in this human form. Sam had been easy: stunned, unwilling to attack his brother’s body. Rigel had no inhibitions. He gave as good as he got, and better, and while she couldn’t feel the pain herself, she could sense the injuries humming beneath the vessel’s skin.

            And then something happened: the soul stopped fighting her. It didn’t take over, it wound around her and added its prowess to hers. Suddenly, she wasn’t dodging and flailing. She was brawling, and hard: diaphragm jabs, solid elbows to the ribs, blow after blow. She’d given him a choice: kill or be killed. He was choosing the lesser of two evils.

            Finally she managed to land one good hard blow that flung Rigel back against the wall. His head cracked against it and he crumbled. Wiping her lip where there should have been blood—and there wasn’t, but she’d known it would happen like that—she walked over to him and pried the gun from his fingers.

            “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this.” She murmured, crouching in front of him. “And it won’t be the last.”

            She jerked her arm back for the first blow.

            Froze.

            Rigel pressed the cold knife against her throat.

            “Drop the gun.”

            She let it go.

            “Stand up.”

            Her mind raced. She could let him kill the vessel, true, but that would banish her again, ruin all of the hard work she’d done to piece her essence back together. And all she needed now was that last infinitesimal scrap.

            She let the soul back in.

            She watched him take control, strike Rigel hard enough to disorient him, and then disarm him. But then the tension started: she couldn’t get her fingers back around him. He was slippery, and he was free. She fought and pulled against him as he barged out the door and ran across the deserted Pulaski Highway, vaulted the verge, went into the buildings on the opposite side of the street.

            “You can’t fight me forever.” She snapped.

            “Don’t need to.” She could feel the exhaustion of his fight. She stabbed into him, not caring when she felt his mind recoil, and flung herself back in control. Then it was back across the street, sprinting across the parking lot and back into the room.

            The empty room. Rigel was gone.

            She stormed into the bathroom, flicked on the light and let herself hate the smirking face, the raised eyebrows of his soul’s reflection in the mirror.

            “Listen to me, you weak little bastard.” She snarled. “You helped me beat that man. You’re the reason he almost died. And this is just the beginning. Do you have any idea what I can do with you? I could hunt the hunters for the rest of eternity.”

“Yeah, about that. What’s your angle, anyway? Why do you hate hunters so much? Aside from you being the kinda freak my kind just gobbles up for breakfast.”

“That’s just it. Your friends. Your _kind_. You don’t really know what they’re like, do you? What half of them have done, are _planning_? It’s bigger than this one city, I can tell you that much. I could tell you other things, too. Things that would curl this spiky hair.” She patted the top of his head, then shrugged. “But I won’t. I’ll just keep doing what I’ve always down. And in this form I’d be stronger than in my own. Almost unstoppable.”

            “Just try.” He said calmly. “I’ll be fightin’ your ass every step of the way.”

            “No, you won’t.” She sneered. “Because you’re weak. Body, mind, will, spirit, you’re the weakest sack of trash I’ve ever known. That’s why your mommy and daddy died.” She saw the shock and dismay flicker in his eyes. “That’s right. You lost them because you were too weak. You could’ve saved them when you went back in time. You could’ve let Anna kill Sam. But you weren’t strong enough to live without that pathetic, spineless, womanizing man- _slut_ of a brother.”

            “Yeah, keep talkin’ bitch. You’re just digging your own grave.”

“And now you lost pretty Lisa. And that bastard son of hers, Ben. You think he doesn’t go to bed every night cursing the surrogate _father_ who _abandoned_ him? You men really are bastards, just breeding and raising more bastards. You, your father, and Ben, you’re all the same kind of animal.”

            “Shut up.” He growled.

            “And now you’re going to lose Sam again. Because as soon as we’ve finished with Marik, believe me, we will make _sure_ he’s not a factor anymore. And even if he escapes? He’s already gone. No love lost between you two, right?” She laughed sharply. “What’s the point of having a brother you can’t even _trust_?” She propped her chin on her fist. “And what about Castiel?”

            “What about him?”

            “The angel who would be king.” She purred. “You know where he is right now? Fighting for his _life_. He’ll be dead soon, though, don’t worry. Won’t that be nice, Dean, No more angels to contend with. Well. Except for Balthazar and Raphael, but they’ll tear each other apart when Balthazar learns of his little brother’s demise.”

            “Yeah. Right. Cass dies, God brings him back.”

            “Didn’t Death teach you your lesson, Dean? You can’t keep disrupting the natural order. Castiel is all out of extra lives. Next time, maybe it sticks.”

            Dean’s upper lip twitched in a snarl. “You got a problem with my friends?”

            “Oh, Lisa’s all right. Except for the part where she fell in love with _you_.”

            “What is this, some kinda juiced-up personal vendetta? I don’t even _know_ you, lady. So back off.”

            “No, you don’t know me from Adam.” She laughed at her own little joke, watching his eyes dart to one side. “That’s right, the brother you forgot about. Adam, wasn’t it? Do you know why Sam’s soul is the way it is?” She ran a hand back through her hair. “Because every time Lucifer and Michael wanted to attack Adam, Sam took the beating. He let them tear him apart to protect Adam’s soul.” She shrugged. “Of course, now that he’s gone, I can’t imagine what they’re doing to him.”

            “Sam was—?”

            “He learned it from you.” She nodded. “How to be a good older brother. He took every whipping, every time. He kept Adam safe for…well, almost a hundred and five long, agonizing years. But now they’ve got forever in that cage, and Adam’s got no one to protect him. He’s just… _screaming_ for Sam to let him out.”

            Isabelle looked up at the mirror, then dropped her eyes, suddenly terrified.

The look he had given her was pure murder.

            The Draugr had never seen a more dangerous soul. And that was why she could never let him out again.

            Because a soul like that might just be the end of her.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_December 3 rd, 2011_

_Super 8 Motel, Essex, Maryland_

 

“Two burgers, French fries, and…a beer.”

Sam spread the food out on the unoccupied bed and perched his hands on his hips. “We good?”

            “It’ll work.” Bobby unwrapped the first burger. “Sure you couldn’t find anything better? Stuff tastes like crap.”

            “Not on our budget.” Sam shrugged. “So, find anything?”

            “You bet I did.” Bobby nodded slowly. “You ain’t gonna like it, either.”

            “I hear that a lot. What’s up?”

            “Piece of lore I dug up says a Draugr can create this—kind of barrier of psychic magic mojo around a body that protects against normal weapons. Now, iron and cold steel can penetrate, but that’s about it. Makes any form they’re in almost indestructible as long as they’re in it.”

            Sam frowned. “Same as a demon.”

            “Monster with a bone to pick takes over a body, I got a feelin’ she’s not gonna be takin’ too much care of the meat suit. She could walk into a lion’s den and kill ’em all, if she wanted to.”

            “And it would only hurt Dean. Once she gets her body back and jumps out of his.”

            “Exactly.”

Sam thumped down on the foot of the bed. “We gotta find him, Bobby.”

“Already on it.” Bobby nodded to the police radio beside the television. “Urgent care center over on Pulaski Highway just admitted a guy with broken ribs and a punctured lung. This fella’s got a record long as my arm; they’re shippin’ him to Rosedale Medical Center on Chelasco. Says some guy attacked him in his motel room.”

“He give a description?”

“Wouldn’t say. Cops have him in protective custody. They _think_ he’s involved in the murders goin’ on around here.”

Sam shook his head with a short sigh. “Rigel.”

“Sounds like it. And whaddya think the odds are of the only other hunter in town gettin’ attacked the day after Isabelle gets the jump on Dean?” He pulled on his jacket. “Let’s roll, Sam.”

“Uh, yeah, okay.” Sam grabbed the other burger and followed Bobby out the door. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re gonna go spring us a hunter.”

 

 

            The Rosedale Medical Center gave Sam an uneasy feeling in his gut; it was too dark, and even from the parking lot, the smell of cleaning solution was strong, wafting on the tepid breeze. Leaning against the window to get a good look at the building, Sam fought the crawly feeling on his skin and the headache that was trying to come back.

            “Got your ID, kid?” Bobby asked.

            “Yeah. Got it.” Sam pulled it out of his suit pocket for proof.

            “Remember, you got five minutes after you walk through that door. After that, you’re on your own.”

            “I know, Bobby.” Sam shot him a Here-Goes-Nothing look and climbed out of the Impala.

            “Watch your back in there, Sam.” Bobby warned. Sam drummed his fingers on top of the door, then swung it shut and walked across the deserted parking lot to the sliding front doors.

            The bad feeling got worse when he stepped inside; he didn’t _see_ anyone. Even at night, shouldn’t a care center have personnel on all floors?

            Sam checked the receptionist’s desk; empty. He reached over the counter and picked up the phone: no dial tone. Replacing it on the cradle, Sam pulled out his firearm with one hand, his phone with the other, and speed-dialed Bobby.

            No sound; it was the kind of overwhelming silence that made his heartbeat audible in his ears, bringing on that headache in full force. Pocketing his phone, Sam backed toward the door.

            Something clattered down the hallway to his right. He swung toward it, sights trained, and saw a shadow bounce madly under the fluorescent lights as it disappeared around the corner.

            No choice. “Dammit.”

            Sam followed it.

            The silence gave him one advantage: he could hear clicking footsteps disappearing ahead of him. Following them as silently as he could, he climbed two staircases and made several turns, finally arriving on the fourth floor.

            No sign of Isabelle or Dean, or of any hospital staff. Sam was liking this less by the minute; it wouldn’t take much magic to kill power to a single building. Which meant that everyone within a block radius if not more was in immediate danger from a newly-empowered Draugr.

            Sam grabbed a chart off the wall as he strode down the hallway, flipping through it for names and taking a right at the intersecting corridors; it wasn’t difficult to find Rigel’s room, but the police officers stationed out front were still conscious and still looking suspicious.

            “Saw the lights go out in the lobby.” One of them said.

            “Yeah, power problems. They should be back on in a minute.” Sam pulled out his badge. “Agent Kenning, FBI. I need to ask Gary Rigel a few questions.”

            The cops exchanged a nervous glance.

            “Yeah, your, uh, your partner’s already in there with—”

            The report of gunfire was deafening. The cops spun around and Sam moved, kicking the legs out from under the first, grabbing his head and smashing it into the wall. He locked the other in a chokehold until he passed out, and then Sam stepped into the room.

            Rigel was sitting up in the bed, gun in hand. A draft came in through the shattered window.

            “No.” Sam ran and looked outside; no sign of his brother.

            “Relax. I shot the window. Your partner got out that way.” Rigel nodded to a second door on the wall, still swinging on its hinges. Sam turned to face the bed and found himself staring down the gun; he was getting sick of the predicament. “You here to kill me, too?”

            Sam held up both hands. “Listen. My name is Sam Winchester. That guy you almost shot, Dean? That’s my brother. We’re friends of Bobby Singer’s.”

            Rigel hesitated, dropping his sights an inch. “Bobby?”

            “Yeah. He sent me in to spring you.” He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “But we’ve gotta move.”

            “Tell me something.” Rigel said, leveling the gun again. “Why’d your brother try to kill me?”

            “He’s possessed.” Sam said, flicking a glance toward the door. “By the same monster that’s been killing hunters here for fifty years. A Draugr. She’s trying to piece herself back together.”

            Rigel lowered the gun. “Son of a bitch. I thought so.” He sat up painfully and swung his legs over the side of the bed, one arm curled around his injured ribs. He was shirtless, a black bruise standing out on his pale skin. “That’s why I’m down here. Chasing those reports myself.” He squinted up at Sam. “What’s Bobby Singer want with me?”

            “Honestly, other than to protect you? I’m not sure. But right now we need to get you someplace safe.” Sam offered Rigel a hand and hauled him to his feet. “Can you walk all right?”

            “Guess I’d better.”

            “Great. Follow me.”

            Sam took a quick look down the hallway both ways, then motioned Rigel to follow him. Covering each other’s blind spots, they moved toward the stairs.

            “Elevator might be better.” Rigel suggested.

            “Nothing’s working. Phones, lights…” Sam trailed off, stopped and put a finger to his lips. “You hear that?”

            The door at the top of the stairwell slammed open. Sam didn’t have to look twice to see whose body he facing.

            “Go!” He whirled and gave Rigel a shove with his shoulder. They bolted back the way they’d come, skidded around the corner and ran for the emergency fire escape at the end of the hallway. Sam rammed the door, banging it open against the railing, and let Rigel out ahead of him. A quick glance showed him Dean’s meat suit was still following; Sam punched the door shut and tossed his phone to Rigel.

            “Get down to the parking lot! Tell Bobby the plan’s off!”

            Rigel nodded and vanished down the steel staircase. Sam braced one leg against the railing and threw his weight back against the door even as Isabelle was using Dean’s hundred and eighty pounds of muscle to cram it open.

            Sam could feel the bruises he’d gotten from hitting the angel statue in the cemetery deepening with every thrust of his brother’s weight against the door; finally he set his jaw, took a deep breath, and sidestepped.

            Isabelle came piling out the door with the force of her own momentum; Sam grabbed the collar of his brother’s jacket, heaved him around, and landed a solid punch to his face, knocking him back against the door. Then Sam dropped him and vaulted the fire escape.

            The impact with the ground buckled his knees and knocked the breath out of him. He rolled up onto his feet, gasping, lungs burning, and half-limped, half-ran to the parking lot. The Impala swerved into his path and Bobby reached back to pop the door.

            “Get in!”

            Sam slid into the backseat and pulled the door shut with his foot as Bobby peeled out, burning rubber and throwing sulfuric odor into the air, gunning it for the highway. Sam laid on his back on the backseat, arm slung across his eyes, catching his breath.

            “The hell happened in there, Sam?” Bobby demanded.

            “Isabelle used her magic to cut the power.” Sam said. “She’s powerful, Bobby. And that’s just in Dean’s body.”

            “That ain’t good, Sam.”

            “You two pulled my ass out of the fire, in any case.” Rigel said. “What I wanna know is why you helped me in the first place, Bobby Singer.”

            “Draugr’s after hunters right now. Makes you an ally. If we’re gonna take this nasty little cuss down, we’ll need your help.”

            “Might not be that easy.” Sam said, his breathing finally slaking to normal. “How’re we supposed to fight something we can’t even look in the eyes, Bobby?”

            “Same way they fight the Medusa in every corny action flick I’ve ever seen.” Bobby growled. “Use a mirror. Or we tag team it…one of us gets in behind her while the other two go in as bait. Any case, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

            Rigel twisted around to look at Sam. “First an upsurge in monsters. Now a Viking undead in the United States. The hell is going on out there?”

            Sam met Bobby’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “How much do you know about Purgatory?”

 

 

            They’d been walking for hours. Isabelle was tired, the tired she always felt when she manifested herself for a kill. She hadn’t expected it to take this much out of her, keeping her tenuous hold over Dean Winchester. She’d gotten close to men before, made them go mad just by catching a glimpse of her essence. But here she was, his body tired, or just fading. That was what it always was with her, it was always fading away, in broken fragments, disappearing into the void until she could pull herself back together again. Except this time she was scattered through his body, and he’d been able to take hold a few times. Not that it mattered. They had nowhere to go, for the time being. Their visit to the hospital had done enough.

            Miles away, a police siren wailed, the trembling note cutting through the quiet of a damp street at midnight. It was raining, the pavement washed slick, and Isabelle was grateful for the jacket that kept the rain off of the skin. It was starting to bother her, the feeling of every cold, wet droplet. She didn’t like the wind in her hair. She missed the bubble of cold stillness that had engulfed her for half a century. Like a baby who wanted to return to its mother womb, she craved that cocoon of nothingness. There was too much motion in the world around her.

            She crouched, checking the street from end to end, then fitted her fingers into the sewer grate in the middle of the street and hauled it back. A yawning mouth of black extended below her, rusted rungs the color of mildew stepping down into shadows. It stank, but there was another advantage: the police would be searching for her—or rather, for Dean—after the incident at the hospital. At least a sewer would mask her scent.

            She climbed down several steps, braced her back against the wall, and inched the grate back into place over her head. Then it was down, down in total all-consuming darkness that gave way to a watery green when she dropped to the sewer floor.

            “Home, sweet home.” She murmured, the deep voice bouncing back to her. She would never get used to that. She followed the light to a thin metal grate that allowed in a trickle of a streetlight; then she closed her eyes, spread her arms wide, and let the soul take back control.

            He doubled over with a gasp, hands on knees, feeling the tingles of pain where his brother had punched him. He’d feel more when she left him, if she ever did. Right now she was content to drowse in the back of his mind and recover her own strength.

            “What the hell?” His voice echoed back as a whisper. “What’d you do to me?”

            “Your body takes the strain of everything I do.” She told him, too exhausted to turn the explanation into an ironic jab. “You need to rest.”

            She thought maybe he would fight it, but he had too much self-preservation for that. He put his back to the slimy sewer wall and slid until he was sitting, one leg to his chest, elbow resting on his knee.

            “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” He said, tilting his head back to stare at the grate. She both saw and felt the yellow slants falling across green eyes and an unshaven jaw, and in that instant they were one being, the same. So it was little surprise when the honesty came from her.

            “My parents—my real parents, back in the day—they were Baptist ministers. My mother taught Sunday School. They never let me have an inch of freedom: curfews. Rules. They chose Fletcher as my husband. And on my wedding night, do you know what he did? He _murdered_ me. And then when I—came to, somehow, not dead anymore, I had all sorts of powers. Charms. And hungers that nothing could fill.”

            “Except for, y’know, eating people. Am I right?”

She ignored him. “Then Fletcher fought with another of our kind. When he died, I got as far away as I could. I built a _life_ for myself. And what right did that hunter have to take it away from me?”

            “You’re a freak, sweetheart, let’s face it. Kind of puts you on every hunter’s hit list.”

            “Maybe not every one.” She said, and got no answer. “Back in those days, no one knew about my kind…at least, not here. We moved of our own free will. No talismans could ward us off. And then I found him.”

            “Marik.”

            The sound of the name sent a new burst of strength through her essence. “Do you know what that bastard did to me? He didn’t burn my bones and scatter the ashes into the sea the way the rest of you would. He keeps a piece of me with him, always, _just enough_ so that I can’t regain my form. And then he put up wards so I couldn’t get to him. I couldn’t even get close.” She let the righteous rage flood through both of them, giving him a small taste of what she was feeling, what she’d been feeling for fifty years. The full force of it would’ve twisted his damaged soul beyond recognition. “Of course, he’s not the issue anymore. Dean Winchester. Do you believe in destiny?”

            He snorted a laugh. “You picked a helluva person to ask. My motto’s kinda, ‘screw destiny in the face’.” He paused. “You got friends in low places, right? You probably heard about the, uh, the frigging _Apocalypse_ we put on.”

            “I believe in destiny.” She ignored him. “I believe my destiny is to kill every hunter I cross paths with. Do you know why?” She didn’t give him sideroom to answer. “Because you’re all the same: arrogant leeches. You say you save people, but all you do is ruin lives, everywhere you go.”

            He stayed quiet for a while.

“Eighty three. I watched my dad stand in a room goin’ up in smoke, tryin’ to save my mom when a demon pinned her to the ceiling.” He took a deep breath. “Last year? My brother pulls ten, _unarmed_ civilians out of a hot zone with demons tryin’ to bite him in the ass. You wanna tell me we’re not—?”

            He broke off, sudden silence closing around them like a fist.

            “Something the matter?” Isabelle finally asked.

            “I can’t remember my mom’s name.” Dean’s voice was hushed, hollow. “Tell me that’s not me, bitch.”

            She let the silence stretch on until she could feel the nervousness channeling through the soul.

            “One body is never meant to house two souls.” She explained. “Something I’ve learned in all my rambling years. One soul to one body. That’s the equation for human life. So if _two_ souls are in one body, they’re at war with each other. Eventually, one wins out and the other just…” She trailed off, waiting for him to reach a conclusion.

            “Fades?”

            “Dies.” She dropped the punch with relish. “Permanently.”

            “So, what? You’re killin’ me slowly?”

            “Mmm. You of all hunters should know how weak the human essence truly is.” She said. “There’s no possibility you could overpower me anymore. I have ten times your strength, and you’re a damaged spirit as it is. That long, long siesta in hell—that left more scars than you realize.”

            “So I’m…gonna lose everything? Emotions?” She felt him swallow, with her finger on the pulse of every movement he made, and felt the force it took for him to add, “Memories?”

            Something about that question bothered her. “You’re more worried about losing your precious mental pictures of your family than you are about _dying_? Your soul will go away—when I leave, there’ll be nothing left but an empty shell.”

            “Walking topside?”

            “Maybe. I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

            “Lemee get this straight: you wail on Sam for being soulless, but you wanna turn me into what he was?” She didn’t answer, and he leaned his head back against the wall and scoffed. “You’re a hypocritical back-stabbing whore, y’know that? I let you in for five minutes so you can give us your side of the story, and you think it’s fine to just _stroll_ on in and douse me. Yeah, that’s great. I’m gonna load your ass fulla rock salt if I get outta this one.”

            “If?” She echoed. “Not _when_?”

            He stayed still for a minute, then rolled his chin down to his chest. “Good God, I can’t keep my freakin’ eyes open. I’m guessin’ that’s a side-affect of this little pissing match our souls are having?”

            “You’d guess right.”

            “Fantastic.”

            Through his ears, she listened to the rain dripping down through the grate. It splashed on his forehead, an irritating vibration she felt rippling against her essence, but he seemed to enjoy it.

            “North Dakota. Winter of ninety-nine. Dad finished this job in Orlando and had me meet him and Sam in Iowa. He dropped Sam off with me and went on a hunt in Utah. Man, was I pissed.” He chuckled quietly. “Sam was fifteen and really gettin’ to the point where he hated hunting. We argued for probably two freaking hours before we decided to just drop everything and take a little vacation.”

            “Vacation. That’s very suburban of you.” Isabelle taunted.

            Dean ignored her. “We drove up to South Dakota and camped out in the woods. No chicks, no dad botherin’ us, just acting like normal kids.” He shook his head “Weirdest week of my life.”

            “I’m sure.” She said belligerently.

            “I dunno who got this genius idea, but we,” He broke off, laughed, rested his mouth on the back of his fist and grinned at the memory. “We, uh, we hiked seven miles up to the top of this big-ass mountain during a thunderstorm, and just cut loose. Man, we screamed ourselves hoarse. Talk about a buzz. Nothin’ better than goin’ man against nature.”

            “I fail to see the appeal.”

            “Yeah, after we let it all out, Sam turns to me and he says, ‘You know I’ll always have your back, right, Dean? Even if I leave.’ I told him he was bein’ a dick, he wasn’t gonna walk out on me and dad.” He shook his head. “Guess I was wrong.”

            Isabelle felt a grip of satisfaction in her being. “You’re only serving to prove my point, you know. About the sort of people you hunters are.”

            “Nah. Not really.” Dean looked up at the grate again, his eyes moving slowly across the expanse of clouds and streetlights visible between the slats. “I think about that day every single time it rains.”

            That disturbed Isabelle almost as much as his question about emotions and memories had. “You’re weakening faster than I thought you would.”

            Dean chuckled once, dryly.

            Isabelle could feel the strength returning, flowing to the ends of her essence and giving her back her vision, her processes. She reached out to tap his soul and found it swollen, bulging and hot, like an infected boil just ready to burst.

            “Why did you tell me that story?” She asked cautiously, carefully.

            “Sam was always the stronger one.” Dean mused, ignoring her question. “I mean, hell, he beat the freakin’ devil. He got control. Me, I’m stuck down here with you and I can’t even remember mom’s name.” He rubbed his forehead with one hand. “The hell kinda son forgets that stuff? It’s just a damn _name_.”

            “Soon it won’t even be that much.” She said, and grabbed his soul and plunged back in.

 


	10. Chapter 10

_December 4 th, 2011_

_Super 8 Motel, Essex, Maryland_

 

“So you boys stopped all the monsters from getting out?” Rigel asked, tugging at the necklace around his throat for half a second as he gazed at Sam.

            Sam glanced up from cleaning his firearm. “Not by a long shot. We know something had to have gotten out, we’re just not sure what. But we’re thinking Purgatory opening is what’s behind all the monsters being more active in the last two or three weeks.”

            “We’re just catchin’ shadows of what was waitin’ down there.” Bobby added, swabbing the barrel of his shotgun. “And by shadows, we’re talkin’ a lotta badass monsters.”

            “Yeah, you mentioned the Alphas.” Rigel finished wrapping gauze around the makeshift coat-hanger splint on his ribs. “And you think all that is somehow connected to this thing that’s after me?”

            Sam laughed quietly. “Would you believe me if I said I smelled something weird going on around here?”

            Rigel shot him a somewhat unflattering look of shock. “Smell like sulfur?”

            “Uh-uh. Like freesia, maybe?”

            “Freesia?” Rigel arched an eyebrow. “How do you even know what that smells like? Isn’t that a lady flower, some kinda perfume?”

            “Yeah, try explainin’ that.” Bobby muttered, fitting the pieces of his firearm back together. “’Course, there’s a legend that says some monsters can manifest as our worst fears. Maybe whatever’s outta the pit is followin’ Sam around and showin’ him what he’s scared of.”

            “You’re scared of a flower?” Rigel demanded.

            Sam ignored him. “What legends are those?”

            “You name it. Malicious djinns, kitsunes with a bad case of the pranks. Hell, even tricksters, if you catch ’em in the right mood.” He laid his gun aside and stretched. “Most likely culprit would be a Rakshasa gone bad, though.”

            “Rakshasa? You mean like the one we took out right after dad died?” Sam asked.

            “Yeah, one of _those_ things.” Bobby nodded. “Illusionists, shape-changers—they got the worst powers for their kinda appetite.”

            They went back to work, but Sam couldn’t shake the thought of that flower. He’d smelled it at the M.E.’s office, and again in the hospital when he’d gone in for Rigel. And it had been so out of place in the sewers that he’d assumed it was a perfume being worn by one of the virgins the dragons had been holding captive, but—

            _Perfume_.

            Sam sat back in his chair and dropped the cleaning cloth.

            “Sam?” bobby looked up at him. “Y’all right?”

            “Bobby,” Sam said, eyes wide, fitting the pieces together. “Could a Rakshasa create a kind of…force field of illusion?”

            “What, you mean like around one person?”

            “Or one sense?” Sam met Bobby’s bewildered gaze. “Look. Dean and I, at Lidya’s office…we both smelled something strange. Right?” He paused and waited for Bobby to nod. “Nothing really out of the ordinary.” He hesitated. “I smelled the same thing again in the hospital last night.”

            “Sure it’s not just you?” Rigel asked snidely.

            “Could be.” Sam cut him a look. “If I hadn’t washed these clothes in five years.” He smiled at Bobby, but something hurt when he did it. “Freesia. It was in the Ghost Summer Dream perfume that _Jessica_ always wore.”

            There was a pause. Bobby frowned. “You think a Rakshasa is walkin’ around wearin’ the same perfume as your dead girlfriend?”

            “No! Look,” Sam took a deep breath. “When we were at the M.E.’s office, Dean said he smelled something. Something that reminded him of dad.” Sam didn’t see recognition in the eyes staring back at him. “Bobby, I’m smelling Jess, Dean smelled dad…what if we’ve got something like an Alpha Rakshasa on our tails?”

            “Guess you boys’d better get some wards on ya.” Pause. “Oh, wait, we can’t. ’Cause Dean’s still _out there_ with a damned Draugr ridin’ him!” He took a deep breath. “One step at a time, all right? We can handle…Rakshasa and Purgatory’s spawn and whatever the hell else once we’ve got Dean back.”

            “Agreed.” Sam nodded, though inside he was still lightheaded with realization of what had been haunting him since their arrival in Essex. He checked his watch. “Four o’ clock. We’ve still got an hour until sundown.”

            “I’ll betcha anything that’s when our monster’ll be on the move.” Bobby grabbed his shotgun. “Let’s start at El-Rich and work our way out from there, try an’ pick up a trail.” His eyes moved from Sam to Rigel and back again. “Remember what I said about the lore. A body hostin’ an essence can’t be hurt or killed with anything other than iron or a cold blade s’long as the spirit’s inside it. These are for after.” He held up the firearm for emphasis. “Sam, you got everything you need?”

            Sam resisted the urge to reach into his pocket for the hundredth time since Bobby had given him the weapon. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Bobby slung the pack full of rock-salt cans and lighter fluid over one shoulder. “You boys ready?”

            Sam pressed his lips together and nodded. Rigel stood up and tucked the gun into the waistband of his black pants. They left the hotel room swept clean, not even a food wrapper in the garbage. Sam had the strong feeling they wouldn’t be coming back.

            It was just after four in the afternoon, but Essex was eerily silent as though expecting something. They cruised down Pulaski Highway with the sunset flinging strips of red and purple across the horizon in front of them, and Sam realized this was something he’d missed when he was dead, if it could count as some other form of consciousness: the purr of the Impala, the feeling of the humming engine in his back and shoulders. The more time he spent in it, the more he understood why Dean loved this car.

            They reached El-Rich just as the sun slipped behind the distant treeline; a quick sweep of the parking lot yielded no signs of Dean or Isabelle, and there was no smell of them, either.

            “Looks clean,” Sam said as he rejoined Bobby and Rigel by the Impala. “Anything in the room?”

            “Found this on the bathroom counter.” Rigel held out something small and silver that sparkled in the sun. Sam took it from him and held it up, squinting at it.

            “Huh. Dean’s ring.” He half-smiled, weighing it in his hand. “I haven’t seen him wearing this since we got stuck on Gabriel’s television shows.” He met Bobby’s eyes. “Why’d he leave it behind?”

            “Clue?” Bobby shrugged.

            Rigel shifted. “Might not’ve been his idea.”

            Sam fisted his hand over the ring. “Isabelle left it. To taunt us.” He shook his head. “I’m gonna rip her apart.”

            “Not in the body she’s in, ya aren’t.” Bobby chided. “All right, let’s get thinkin’. If you were some monster with a bad attitude and a bone to pick, where would you go after a defeat like this?”

            “After Rigel. At the hospital.” Sam replied.

            “Obviously.” Rigel crossed his arms. “And after that?”

            “Let’s find out.” Sam climbed in behind the wheel.

            It was dark by the time they pulled into Rosedale, and Sam kept to the backstreets, wary of being seen by authorities, especially the two officers he’d knocked unconscious outside of Rigel’s door.

            “I’ll take a look.” Bobby said as Sam killed the engine on the side of the road a block from the hospital. “You two hang tight.”

            The slamming of his door punctuated an awkward silence that stretched on for several minutes. Rigel leaned his crossed arms on the back of the front seat and breathed on Sam’s neck. If it had been Dean, Sam would’ve tried to elbow him in the face.

            “Listen, Sam?” Rigel said suddenly. “I owe you an apology. I didn’t realize you and your brother were just trying to help me. I almost killed you two.”

            “Yeah, well, we kinda deserved it.” Sam smiled. “We did break into your hotel room.”

            “True, shoulda known better.” Rigel chuckled. “But I’m serious. Y’know, you saved my life in that hospital. They got my lung patched up, but I woulda been dead one way or another if it hadn’t been for you.”

            Sam mulled that over. “Look, my dad, he was a hunter, too. And uh, he had some friends…some really useful contacts, too. But it was a family business. Always has been.” Sam draped his arm along the seat back and looked out the window. “After the Apocalypse, I dunno…I’m starting to think maybe the family’s bigger than just people like Dean and me, y’know?”

            “Not sure I follow.”

            “It’s everyone.” Sam lifted one hand in a There-You-Go gesture. “It’s all the hunters, it’s…everyone who’s fighting the monsters. We gotta have each other’s backs, right? Or else, who will?”

            “That’s a good point. Been thinking the same thing myself, matter of fact.” Rigel seemed about to add something, but broke off as the door opened and Bobby thumped himself down in the front seat.

            Sam started the engine and pulled out onto the next street over. “Find anything?”

            “Whole lotta nothin’.”

“What’s our next move, then?” Rigel leaned against the front seat.

“Beats me. We could always wait and see if she decides to go after this _Marik_  fella tonight.” Bobby stared out at the dark road, then jammed his hand suddenly against the dashboard. “Sam, watch it!”

            Sam slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel hard right, skinning the tires and slinging the Impala sideways toward the person who’d stumbled out onto the road in their path. Sam’s foot pressed the pedal to the floor, cramping his muscles from ankle to knee, but he kept pushing until the car stopped, rocked dangerously from side to side, and finally went still.

            In a cloud of acidic rubber residue and smoking asphalt, Sam stared at his brother.

            “Dean?” His hand dropped to the gun wedged between the upholstery.

            “Get out.” Bobby said lowly, and Sam did, popping the door, waiting a few seconds, then climbing out. He saw a faint flicker in the backseat of the car as Rigel climbed out himself.

Dean didn’t move, arms held a few inches form his body as though he was braced for an attack. His eyes weren’t Dean’s eyes, though—they were wild, hunted, and full of a kind of bitter glee that made Sam’s stomach curl. He’d never seen that expression on his brother’s face before.

            “All right, now, listen.” Bobby came around the side of the car, shotgun leveled toward Dean’s head. “We don’t wanna do anything hasty here. We need to talk.”

            “So talk.” The inflection was almost Dean, so close that if Sam hadn’t known it so well, he might’ve been fooled. Maybe.

            “Listen.” Sam held up one hand. “I just want my brother back, all right?”

            “Too late.” Isabelle turned Dean’s head to one side. “I can’t even feel him fighting me anymore. He’s just too weak.”

            Sam glared furiously, mouth twitching. “Let him go or I’ll make sure you don’t burn easy.”

            “Sam.” Bobby cautioned him.

            “No, we want to hear this. We both do.” Isabelle slid a glance toward Sam. “Tell us how you’ve really wanted to kill your big brother all along.”

            Sam’s eyes widened, flickered. “That’s not true. Dean, that’s not—”

            Isabelle laughed with Dean’s voice, cutting him off. “That sounds like the dying plea of a desperate man, _Sammy_.”

            “Got to hell.”

            “I’m sure that’s what’s waiting for me. Hell…or purgatory. But you know what that means? A few generations down the road, when I drag myself out of whatever pit you hunters put me in, your _grandchildren_ will have to kill me. Don’t you see this is a pointless cycle? It _never_ ends.” Isabelle stepped closer to him. “The world would be better off without hunters screwing up the natural order.”

            “And your freaky mojo _ain’t_?” Bobby demanded. “Hate to break it to ya, sister, but that’s as far from _natural_ as people like you an’ me can get.”

            “Doubt it. Sam’s gone farther.”

            Sam took a deep breath to steady his temper. “Let’s leave the past where it belongs, all right?”

            “Sure.” She stepped so close her forehead—Dean’s forehead, it was still Dean even if he wasn’t the one talking—almost touching Sam’s. “How about I skin the rest of you the way Lucifer skinned your soul? Right here. Right now.”

            Sam’s reply was to jam the barrel of the gun against her torso. “How about you back off?”

            Isabelle licked her lips and bowed her head. “I’m disappointed, Sam. Didn’t anyone tell you? You can’t kill me.” She looked up, and there was a millisecond flicker of something _human_ in her eyes. “You’ll just kill him.”

            She grabbed the gun barrel, jerking it sideways. Sam let it go and brought his hand up, smashing it into her throat, paralyzing her vocal cords. In the same motion, he grabbed her sleeve and spun her around, slamming her against the Impala.

            Isabelle flicked a feral smile at him, struggling against his arm pinning her down by her throat. “Déjà vu, Sammy?” She hissed. “Aren’t you gonna beat me up, now?”

            Sam slammed his flat hand against the window of the Impala, making her jump. He leaned his head over her. “Get out of Dean, or we force you out.”

            Isabelle snapped up a hand, grabbed Sam’s wrist and twisted his arm sideways, sinking her teeth into the skin for good measure. Sam felt her tongue swipe the cut, sucking down his blood.

 Sam reacted instinctively, pulling away, and Isabelle brought her knee up into his gut, flooring him. She was impossibly strong, even removed from her natural body; Sam thought he felt a rib crack. Rigel piled around the Impala to help and Isabelle met him head-on. She smashed the knife out of Rigel’s hands and threw him against the car door, yanking the gun out of his waistband.

            “Dean!” Sam yelled, and for an instant Isabelle froze.

            Then she fired.

            Rigel dropped and rolled away, coming up bleeding from a nick shot on his ribs. He retrieved the knife and came after Isabelle, and Sam saw the perfect opportunity: grab her from behind, pin her, immobilize her, while Rigel sank the knife into her chest. He could do it, he’d done it with Ruby, how was this any different? Just another kind of demon in another kind of host body.

            Except this body was his brother’s.

            Sam scrambled up off the pavement and shoved Isabelle against the car again; the gun misfired, chewing into asphalt, and Isabelle turned it on him.

            “Ready to die, Sam?” She asked coolly.

            “Hey, joke’s on you.” Sam said. “Those rounds are just rock salt.”

            “Really?” Isabelle swept a glance around their surroundings, toward the place where the bullet had hit the pavement “Then why don’t I see any salt?”

            Sam pinned a glare on Rigel.

            It was all the opportunity Isabelle needed. She smashed the gun down hard on the cluster of nerves on Sam’s shoulder, thrumming numbness through to his fingertips, and then she took off running.

            “Don’t move!” Rigel yelled, and he dropped, jerking a second gun out of the holster on his ankle, and swung up to aim it directly at Sam. “Don’t move one muscle, Winchester.”

Sam went still. “Rigel. What the hell are you doing?”

Rigel’s teeth were gritted, lips flaring with every breath. “You know how long I’ve been in Essex? I was just a boy, Sam. I’ve been running this town for years. Always me against her. Against Isabelle. And that’s how it has to be.”

“Are you sick? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sam.” Bobby said warningly. “He’s Marik.”

Rigel flipped a half-crazed smile toward Bobby. “Fifty years I’ve been dancing with this Draugr. Fifty years. It’s better than marriage. Better than anything. I had her perfectly under control and she kept the competition away. And then you, Sam, you and your brother moseyed into town and gave her the idea of turning on me. Her partner. Her lover. The only one who cares enough not to banish her.”

“Lover.” Sam echoed flatly, wrestling down his rage. “She… _kills hunters_ , Rigel.”

“Not Rigel. That was just part of the game. Part of the foreplay.”

“This is not a game! People are _dying_!” Sam snarled. “You’re a hunter! Dammit! Use your head!”

            Rigel’s grip on the gun steadied. “I am.”

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Bobby piled into Rigel from nowhere, smacking him back down against the car, and they dissolved into a wrestling match over the weapon.

            “Sam! Get her!” Bobby howled, throwing Rigel on the pavement. Gripping his unfeeling arm, Sam nodded and took off after Isabelle.

 

           

Isabelle’s dash for freedom ended in an alleyway with a brick wall three times her height. The first drops of rain started to fall as Sam jogged to a halt behind her, gun drawn but not moving, not taking aim. Not yet.

“You know, in my true form, I could grow myself taller than any of these buildings.” Isabelle said without facing him. “The downside to a stolen body, I guess.”

“Put your gun down.” Sam said, struggling for calm. At least he’d regained partial feeling in his fingertips, so that his grip on the firearm, while loose, was steady. “Believe me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Isabelle perched her hands on her hips and turned. “No, I think you do. It’s your _brother_ you don’t want to hurt.”

Sam couldn’t deny that. “Look. You had your fun, all right. Play time’s over.” He leveled his sights. “Let him go.”

Isabelle laughed and looked down. “You know, for a pathetic, mealy-mouthed _man_ , this meat suit isn’t half bad.” She looked up at him with contemptuous triumph. “I think I’ll keep it, just for kicks. And for the blood. Blood is good, too.”

Sam struggled to hold on to his temper, and switched tactics; it was his last resort. He didn’t trust her enough to go for the weapon in his pocket just yet. “Dean.”

Isabelle smirked. “Too late, sweetheart.”

“Dean, I need you to listen to me. I don’t care what this freak says. I know you’re still in there, right? I need your help.”

Isabelle laughed. “Oh, this is fun. They always said the _bromance_ between the Winchester brothers was the stuff of legends.” She crossed her arms, gun still in hand. “Keep talking. This is just too good.”

Calm, quiet, Sam looked at her. “Let him go.”

            Isabelle’s eyes flickered. “You know this is bogus, right? There’s no hope for your brother! His entire soul is empty. Dark. Perverted. He used to sleep with women and just _leave_ them in the dust. I mean, look at Lisa!”

            “At least he didn’t _murder_ anyone!” Sam retorted.

            “I can see the future. Do you understand that? The minute you and Dean set foot in this town, I knew exactly what you would do, what you were capable of. And I can’t let it happen. I have to kill him! How is that too big for your puny mind to grasp? Him, and people like him—they’ll destroy the world!”

            “Half the people in this world would be dead already if Dean hadn’t stood up to Michael.” Sam’s hand inched toward his back pocket.

            “Stop.” Isabelle set her sights on him. “You won’t shoot your brother and you’re not getting at whatever’s in your pocket. So make your choice, Sam: he dies or you do.”

            Sam took a deep breath; he had one last toss, one last desperate grab.

            He straightened. “Dean’s my brother. End of the world,” He shrugged. “Or not. And I’ll fight for him until the day I die.”

            A few seconds of silence filtered between them, with the rain picking up, bouncing ice-cold pellets off the asphalt.

            “Well.” Isabelle said. “That can be arranged.”

            She aimed for his heart.

            Sam threw down his gun, both of them watching his last surefire hope clatter away toward his enemy.

Then he spread out his arms. “Dean?” Isabelle’s gaze flicked back to him. “You didn’t leave. Lucifer wanted to take you apart one piece at a time. You still had my back.” He breathed in deeply and let out a slow, steadying breath, remembering that empty, stunted field. The graveyard. What it had meant to him then, and what it meant now, when everything was switched like looking in a mirror. Remembering the thing that had made him hold on. “Dean, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Isabelle smirked. “Bad idea.”

But she didn’t fire. Didn’t fire. Just stared at him.

Seconds ticked past; Sam couldn’t hear anything, not even the rain, above the earth-shattering thump of his heartbeat.

Then Isabelle reached up a hand, slowly, and tangled her fingers in her hair. “What do you mean, _it’s everything_? Family is just a prison!”

Her head, Dean’s head, snapped up. “Sam, I got her!”

Sam unwound Rigel’s necklace from his wrist and let it dangle in front of Dean and Isabelle. “Looking for this?”

Dean stared at it for a second; then he hacked up something that smelled like death. A clot of gray wisped out of his mouth and kept falling, materializing into the Draugr essence they had faced in the graveyard: Isabelle Pole, with loathing in her empty dark eyes, hair straggling over her shoulders. She opened her mouth, and couldn’t speak. She lunged toward him.

And stopped, one hand extended, unable to reach the necklace, the crushed dust of her bones encased in a triangle of iron inside the small pendant. Sam smirked.

“Game’s over, Isabelle.”

There was a single report of gunfire and Sam stepped back as the burst of rock salt banished her essence, shredding her into nothing.

Dean lowered the firearm very slowly. “Told you I’d load your ass up with rock salt.” He wiped his face on his sleeve.

“You good?” Sam asked.

“Kinda feel like I just got hit by a freakin’ meteorite.” Dean squinted his eyes shut, then pulled his hand away from his head as footfalls slapped toward them from outside the alley. Bobby slowed to a halt in the mouth of the alley, scuffed up with asphalt ground into his wounds.

“Dean, that you?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah, Bobby, it’s me.” Dean moved stiffly as he straightened. “Rigel?”

“Backstabbing son of a bitch took off.” Bobby growled. “I chased him this far. He ain’t after you?”

“No. Didn’t see him.” Sam stuffed the paper back into his pocket.

 “Isabelle gone?”

“Damn right she is.” Dean said.

“Where was she headed when we almost ran you down?” Sam demanded.

“Couldn’t tell.” Dean shook his head. “Bitch had me locked down in _irons_.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Motel room.” Dean said. “I remember fightin’ Rigel. Isabelle wanted him dead. That’s for damn sure.”

“He was Marik.” Sam said with frustration. “He was Marik the whole time, and I never even…”

“Don’t go beatin’ yourself up, kid. He didn’t want us to know, there wasn’t much we could do. He threw me off too with that whole criminal record. Guess it all adds up, though.” Bobby shot a glance toward Dean. “Apparently he was playin’ games with her, foreplay an’ all.”

“Hunter gettin’ his kinky on with a monster. That sound a little weird to you?”

“This whole thing sounds weird.” Sam sighed. “What happened after the motel room?”

 “She hauled my ass down into the sewers. After that,” Dean shrugged. “Bupkiss.”

“We’ll find out where she’s been, one way or another.” Bobby caught Dean’s eye for a second. “I’ll keep an eye out for Rigel and take a look around.”

Sam swung the necklace around one finger and startled out of his thoughts of Draugrs and hunters that betrayed the cause when Dean bumped his shoulder and handed him his gun.

“Drop this?” Dean asked dryly. Sam smiled as he took it back and tucked it into his waistband. “Listen, Sam. I appreciate what you did for me back there.”

“Yeah, anytime.”

“But seriously? You were just gonna let Isabelle gank you if I didn’t do something?”

“Would you have let Lucifer kill you?”

Dean raised his eyebrows, then nodded. “Point well taken.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell outta Dodge before Isabelle decides to pull herself together and hunt some more hunters.”

“At least we stopped her from getting her body back for now.” Sam said as they left the alley and followed Bobby, no more than a flickering shadow through the veil of rainfall. “She’s gonna be pissed, but we did it.”

“Yeah, about time we saved someone’s ass.”

“Luckily we saved yours, too.” Sam added.

Dean slid a glance toward him sideways and smirked. “You always were a sensitive little bitch, Sam.”

Sam grinned. “Yeah, well, I’ve got this cocky _jerk_ for a brother. We balance each other out. It’s the family business.” He tossed the necklace to his brother.

It bounced off of Dean’s chest as he froze, grabbed his arm.

And collapsed, spewing blood from his brachial artery.

“ _Dean_?” Sam darted back to his side, grabbed his brother by the arms as he fell, Dean’s weight dragging them both to their knees. “Dean!”

Blood was starting to soak through Dean’s sleeve already, dripping, splashing wetly onto the street. Sam laid him gently on the pavement and clapped both hands over the gushing wound, feeling the warm red flow rising between his fingers.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean said hazily.

“Just take it easy. I got you, all right?” Sam leaned his full weight on both hands. “Bobby! _Help_!” Sam glanced at his brother and saw Dean’s eyes closing, just a sliver of white and green still visible. “No! Dean, hold on!”

“The hell happened?” Bobby was suddenly beside Sam, dropping his shotgun and starting to pull off his jacket.

“Get—get the Impala.” Sam said raggedly. “Hurry!”

Bobby was already gone, pounding back toward the car. Sam pulled his hands away just long enough to shed his jacket, wad it up and press it into the injury. The blood kept coming—arterial gunshot wounds bled the worst, you’d be dead in five minutes if you were even that lucky, and Dean didn’t look that lucky.

Sam knotted the sleeve of the jacket into an oversized tourniquet and went back to trying to staunch the blood-flow. He wanted to pray, to God, to the angels, to _someone_ , but he couldn’t manage anything other than: “Dean…come on, man.”

“Hey. Sam.” Dean said, so softly Sam could barely hear him. “Remember South Dakota?”

Sam had a sudden flash of memory: a deserted town at night, the feeling of a knife jammed into his back, Dean running toward him—

“Don’t you start that.” Sam shoved his fingers down harder; they were soaked and slippery with his brother’s blood.

Dean’s hand came up suddenly, gripping Sam’s hair hard, yanking his head around until their eyes met. Dean looked half-delirious, breathing hard through gritted teeth, eyes dilated to pinpoints.

“I got your back, Sammy.” He said. “Every time, hear me? Even when you turn your back on me.”

Stunned, Sam dragged in a shaky breath. “Dean.”

Dean’s hand dropped down onto his chest and his head lolled on the street.

“Dean!” Sam grabbed the front of his brother’s shirt, hauling him off of the road. He shook him slightly, staring into Dean’s face, waiting for him to react, to respond. But there was nothing.

“No.” Sam said, stubbornly. He grabbed Dean’s face, cradling it in his hands, fighting the black fire of heat behind his eyes. “No. No, dammit, _Dean_!”

He pulled his brother’s body into his arms and held on, one hand still clamped down on the gushing artery, the other pushing erratically through Dean’s hair, his face buried in his brother’s chest, feeling that faint thready heartbeat promising there was still something there.

He heard the brush of footsteps over the curb, kicking something aside. He pulled his face up from Dean’s chest, blood running down his cheek and into his eye like it was his own, dripping off his chin.

Isabelle stood over the broken iron triangle, crushed under Sam’s feet as he’d run to his brother. She was holding up the handful of bone dust exultantly and growing more material by the second.

“I suppose I do owe Marik something.” She purred. “If he hadn’t shot me in the hospital, I wouldn’t have this back.” Her eyes flicked to Sam, and he looked down. “I wouldn’t have both of you.”

She walked toward him, solidifying from the ankles up as the last piece of her essence joined the rest of her, giving her back her full corporeal form and powers.

“Would you like me to walk in your dreams, Sam?” She asked. “I could show you Jessica. Or I could take you back to the cage again.”

Sam kept his eyes pinned on the pool of Dean’s blood spreading out around them, sticky crimson reflecting the buildings around them. Dean’s breaths, shallow and fluttery, sifted the blood from Sam’s cheek. His eyes flicked rapidly beneath the lids.

“If he dies,” Sam snarled. “I’ll drag you out of the pit and kill you. Over and over again. Do you hear me?”

“Sorry to say, you won’t be around to make it happen.” Isabelle said. “Look at you, Sam. You can’t even meet my eyes.”

Her foot touched the edge of the puddle.

Sam dropped his free hand into his pocket, slung out the knife and threw it; it stuck in Isabelle’s throat and sent her reeling, straight back onto the hood of the Impala as Bobby came screeching around the corner. Sam didn’t have to do the rest: Bobby leaped out, moved with a speed that completely belied his age, and chopped Isabelle’s head off with the cold dagger.

Sam hunched back over Dean’s body and finally started to pray.

 


	11. Chapter 11

_December 5 th, 2011_

_Unknown_

 

When Dean was fifteen years old, he got drunk for the first time.

 John Winchester had gone on a mission hunting a Woman in White in Nebraska. Dean had been left alone with Sam at a motel on the border; Sam, who’d done his homework and gone straight to bed like the goody-two-shoes he was. And Dean, who’d happened to be dating the smokin’ head cheerleader at their school for that particular month, had decided to have her over just to hang out and watch a movie and maybe get some make-out action.

Well, she’d brought her best friend. Which was fine by Dean, the more the merrier as far as chicks went. Except the ditzy best friend also brought the school’s football captain, who was a little—all right, a _lot_ —sore about his on-again-off-again flame dating the new kid in town. His method of revenge? Bring the entire team to the motel.

So Dean had ended up with twenty-five jocks plus girlfriends on his doorstep, and where there were unsupervised teenagers, there was unsupervised alcohol consumption. Which was cool with Dean, too—except he had to lock them all out of the motel room because Sam was trying to sleep. Twenty-six teenagers, twelve six-packs of beer and a few hours to waste at a motel no one ever policed or visited on the edge of town wasn’t a good equation even in Dean’s mind, but he went with it—it was about time to cut loose, have some fun while dad was out of town.

And that was how he’d ended up in a drinking contest with his girlfriend and gotten so smashed he couldn’t walk straight. And he’d walked—or more accurately, he’d stumbled—on two of the jocks talking about the motel, and more importantly, the people staying there. Years later Dean hadn’t been able to remember what they’d said, but something about how Dean’s parents must’ve been so poor they were out trading tricks and their poor suck-up bastard sons were heading down the same path.

On a good day, Dean would’ve been able to hold his own against the two of them. But he’d been beyond intoxicated and looking for a fight, and he’d gotten his ass handed to him. He’d ended up flat on his back on the ground with the teenagers blood-lusting over him, screaming for him to fight the jocks. He’d thrown a few good punches but never hit anything, since he’d been seeing four guys instead of two.

His memory was a little fuzzy on the next part, too. But at some point the motel room door had opened. And then Dean had been staring up at Sam standing over him, arms spread out defensively, facing the jocks. Little Sammy, eleven years old, up against two sixteen-year-old football players.

No contest. Sam had whupped their asses. Once they were on the ground with  broken noses and split lips, Sam had looked around at the stunned, drunk kids and said with steely calm, “Go home. All of you.”

They’d bailed, jumping on bikes and into cars, peeling out until the lot was deserted. Then Sam had hauled Dean to his feet and gotten him patched up and in bed. And the next morning he’d sat with his back to the wall and handed Dean glass after glass of water while he threw up all of the food he’d ever had in his stomach.

Beaten, hungover, facing Sam’s disappointment and then John’s when he’d come home and heard the story. Dean tended to live life with as few regrets as possible, but he’d never felt worse than that day.

Until the moment he woke up on his back on that mattress.

The pain didn’t give him one second to catch his breath. It hit him from every side: back, stomach, head, arm, arm, freaking _arm_. Dean rolled over, grabbed the bandage circling his left bicep and clenched his jaw, scrunching his face against the shooting fire racing up and down beneath his skin. It felt like he had vampire fangs sewn into his muscles, chomping down. And it just kept getting worse, like someone cranking up the volume on the most annoying song in history.

Bucket, foot of the bed. Dean grabbed it and vomited, feeling like the weakest, lowest piece of crap on planet earth. He emptied his insides, then set the bucket down and wiped his face on his arm and squinted at the door, breathing slowly through his mouth to calm his heaving gut; it looked like he was in a laundry room. There was a bright yellow light turned on over his head, burning his retinas. His ribs were starting to throb, but he couldn’t remember what he’d tangled with to give him these wounds—any of them. The last thing he remembered was…hell, the last thing he remembered was walking with Sam on a dark street reflecting lights off of puddles.

“Sam?” Dean called cautiously; he didn’t hear any reply, and the sharp tang of laundry detergent was starting to burn his nose. Dean stood slowly, bracing himself against the wall, feeling like he’d just gotten into a fight with a Wendigo and taken as much of a beating as he gave. He found his shirt slung over the linen bar on the back of the door, and slipped slowly into it one-handed, careful not to jar his aching left arm. He shoved the cot back with his foot and walked bare-foot out to do some exploring.

Everything looked so white at first, he thought he was in a hospital—the kinda hospital where they shoved patients into laundry rooms. After his eyes adjusted Dean realized he was in a house, a really white, superclean house with a full-glass front. How the hell people could stand being so exposed to every Tom, Dick and Ghosty who decided to take a look in still baffled him. Massaging his bandage absentmindedly, he prowled to the end of the small hallway outside the room and looked around the corner.

It was a living room with carpet about two inches deep and more white furniture. All right, Dean would be the first to admit he wasn’t exactly everyone’s go-to guy on home décor, but seriously. What happened to your white couches when you came home and bled all over them?

Well, clue number two: this probably wasn’t a hunter’s house. Some average Joe’s place, and not Joe Cool, either. How the hell he’d _gotten_ here was another question, and more importantly, where the hell was _here_?

He walked to the front window and twitched the thin drapes aside to take a look at the street; didn’t tell him much. He cased the room with a glance and saw a stack of mail on a dresser beside the entryway. _Yahtzee._ He went to take a look.

Richard A. Barons. Didn’t ring a bell. Dean flipped through the stack.

Richard and Lidya Barons.

Dean dropped the letters. “Sam?”

“In here.” The reply came from the kitchen. Muttering under his breath, Dean followed it past a staircase and into a kitchen with a glass roof. What the hell.

            Sam was sitting at the table, spinning a tall crystal cup between his hands. He looked up when Dean cleared his throat.

            “Hey.” Sam said quietly.

            “Hey,” Dean took a second to study the room: white, like the whole rest of this damned house, with sliding glass doors looking out into a manicured back lawn. Figured. “So what picked us up and dropped us in Stepford hell?”

            Sam’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile. “Bobby’s idea. Lidya was premed, remember? Figured it’d be better to get you patched up without all the uh, awkward questions.”

            “Makes sense.” Dean walked over to the table, pulled out a chair and dropped into it facing Sam. “So, you wanna tell me what I got hit by last night?”

            “A bullet.” Sam said. “And it was actually two days ago.” He got up and went to the fridge, pouring a glassful of some kind of thick green sludge that even from a distance smelled like a jungle rubbed in a rainforest dunked in a pond.

            “Sam, what the hell is that?” Dean asked, sitting back from the table. “I ain’t drinkin’ that.”

            Sam returned to the table, set the glass down in front of Dean and braced himself with one hand on the table, one on the back of Dean’s chair. “Yes, you are.”

            Dean flicked a You-Creepy-Dick look at him. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

            Sam gave him an ironic smile and went back to his seat. Dean grabbed the glass, took a sniff, and chugged. It wasn’t bad going down, but the aftertaste was murder.

            He banged the empty crystal down on the table. “All right, I drank your toxic sewer water. Now you wanna tell me what happened two days ago?”

            “I was actually hoping you could fill me in on a few details.” Sam admitted. “We found you—”

            “I remember that part.” Dean interrupted.

            “Okay, so…what don’t you remember?”

            “This.” Dean pointed to himself in a circular motion. “All of this. Last thing I remember, I was peachy. Then I’m wakin’ up in a damn coat closet feelin’ like I just got my ass kicked.”

            “I don’t know, Dean.” Sam gave him a typical, soulful, I-Am-Really-Sorry-I-Wish-I-Could-Ease-All-Your-Suffering look. “You were….kind of already like that when we found you. After Isabelle left your body, all of those injuries started cropping up.” He shook his head. “It was pretty touch-and-go for a while there.”

            Dean went still and looked closely at his brother. “Funny. I’ve heard that before. Know who said it?” Sam stared at him blankly and Dean clenched his jaw. “ _I_ did, genius. Right after I bought your soul back from that crossroads demon.”

            Sam held up both hands in a calming gesture. “No deals, Dean, I swear. Bobby got the Impala, we drove straight to Lidya’s, she patched you up.” He chuckled quietly. “All-human medicine.”

            “It’d better be,” Dean said dangerously, spinning his glass.

            They didn’t talk for a while, Dean always looking down, feeling Sam’s eyes on him. He was also feeling tired, and sore. He wasn’t a lightweight when it came to pain, but whatever he’d gone through had knocked the wind out of him and he still hadn’t gotten it back.

“Dig up any dirt on our buddy Marik?”

“Not much. He’s lived in Essex most of his life. Every couple years, he dropped off the map. Like after he went to prison? Yeah. Next place he showed up was in _Tanzania_ _._ I guess he’s international, too.”

            “Huh.” Dean nodded. “Y’know, we should go international.”

            “Dean? We have enough trouble holding things together in the States.”

“Good point.” Dean crossed his arms on the tabletop. “So, what’s next?”

“Bobby’s looking for Marik. No luck so far. And we’ve still got Isabelle’s bones to burn.” He chuckled softly, almost to himself. “Believe me, that’s one monster I don’t wanna tangle with again.”

“We got Isabelle’s bones? As in _all_ of them?”

“Yeah. She got her hands on the necklace.” Sam flushed a little when he said it, and Dean sat back.

“You let her get to it.”

“I had a hunch I could stop her.”

“Sammy, you’re crazy. You know that bitch coulda flattened this whole town when she had her mojo back? The hell were you thinking?”

“Dean. I took a risk, and…it panned out.” Sam looked at him wryly. “Sorta runs in the family.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, all I’m saying is, I’m not the one who gave her a human body in the first place. You know how much damage she could’ve done just with you, Dean?”

“Thought crossed my mind, yeah. But I had it under control, Sam! Letting the Draugr get her freakin’ body back? Not exactly Safety Plan One-Oh-One!”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? She’s dead, Dean. She’s gone. We don’t have to _deal_ with her anymore.”

“Sam, we can’t keep takin’ risks like that. We can’t keep pretending things are just gonna somehow _magically_ go right every time we stick our necks out on the line. Pretty soon the axe is gonna come down, and then what? We’ll be stuck with some crazy-ass ghost on the loose or something.”

Sam shook his head very slightly, staring at Dean. “You can’t take five minutes to be happy about this, can you? Dean. It’s a _win_ , all right? We beat Isabelle and Marik.”

“How close did we come to losing, Sam? Huh?” Dean asked.

“Is that really what’s important?”

“You’re damn right it’s important! You know who goes into this stuff without thinking about the consequences, just doin’ everything he can to get the job done, and to hell with the consequences?”

“You?” Sam asked, trying to lighten the conversation. Dean smacked his palm down on the table and looked up at the ceiling, and it poured down Sam like icy water on his back. “Me. That’s what I did when I was soulless.”

“Look, Sam. All I’m sayin’ is, we gotta be more careful. Right? I mean, we only got once chance at most of the stuff we do. Gotta do it right.”

“I know. I get it.” Sam said. “I do. But Dean, you can’t ask me to be objective every single time.” His eyes pinned to the table. “Not when you’re about to die.”

Dean tried to find an argument to that, and couldn’t. “Guess we’re back to bein’ each other’s weak spot, huh?”

“No one said things would be perfect when you brought me back.”

Dean smiled slightly to himself. “Nah. Guess not.”

The front door opened, bringing them both glancing up. “Sam? Do I hear Dean talking?”

“Yeah, Lidya, he’s up.”

Lidya staggered into the kitchen, weighed down with bags of groceries. “Hi, Dean! How’re you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks.” Dean grinned. Sam rolled his eyes and got up to help Lidya with the bags.

“Thanks!” She leaned one elbow on the counter. “Oh, boy, I’m wiped out! Long day. Rich should be home soon.” She pointed to Dean. “Shirt off. I need to check all those injuries of yours.”

Only the quelling, threatening look Sam shot him over their host’s shoulder made Dean bite his tongue on a ridiculous response.

“So,” Lidya said as she checked the bandage on Dean’s arm and started unraveling it. “I thought I’d make some burgers for dinner. Dean, your brother mentioned you’re a fan.”

“I got a soft spot for a good hamburger, not gonna lie.” Dean said, wincing as Lidya peeled off the gauze taped over the wound. She studied it, then sent Sam upstairs for her nursing bag.

“It looks like you went through a lot.” Lidya said quietly to Dean.

“Sam said it got a little hairy there for a while.”

“It was a lot worse than I told him. Today was the first time I could convince him to leave that room where we were keeping you.” Lidya smiled gently at Dean as he cut her a look over his shoulder. “I can tell things aren’t perfect between you, Dean. But your brother cares about you.”

“Yeah.” Dean muttered. “Thanks.”

“Mmhmm. Ah, Sam, can you put that right here on the table?” She said as Sam turned with the nursing kit. “And turn on the television, please?”

Sam obliged, the strains of the weather forecast seeping into the room as she started to bandage Dean’s arm.

“—with the record-breaking hot flash on its way out, highs today will only be in the forties.” The weatherman said cheerfully.

“Oh, no!” Lidya complained. “That means burgers are out!”

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, leaning against the doorframe, and they grinned, and spoke at the same time: “We’ll take it.”

 

 

They burned the bones on a sandy flat beneath the bridge stretching out over the Chesapeake Bay inlet. Leaning side-by-side with Sam against the bumper of the Impala, Dean tucked his hands in his pockets.

“So, let me get this straight.” Sam said quietly. “Marik hunted Isabelle down because he knew she was Draugr. Then he raped and killed her, and kept some of her bones so she couldn’t reform?”

“Yup.”

“And he used wards to keep her away from him. He forced her into playing his sick game for fifty years. Until we came along.”

“Sounds like it.”

Sam grunted with disbelief. “So…she couldn’t get to him. The iron pendant, the knife he always had on him…he had her totally under his control. And he just let her live on and kill other hunters so they wouldn’t interfere with his game.” He paused. “It’s sick. Marik’s gotta be messed up in the head.”

Dean shrugged. “Hunters aren’t the sanest bunch, Sam.”

Sam nodded with a You’ve-Got-A-Point look, then got serious. “So that’s why she possessed you. To get through Marik’s wards.”

“Pretty much.” Dean said. “I kinda got the feeling she wanted to use a hunter to gank him all along, y’know? She wanted to take down as many of us as she could.”

“Explains the M.O. of the murders,” Sam frowned. “She raped the hunters because Marik raped her. Then she hid their bodies.” He shook his head. “But those burns, they told us what she was. Bobby showed me in the lore books after dinner last night: Draugrs always have a mark on some part of their body, this little black tattoo inside their arm.”

“Kinda like she was warning us.” Dean mused.

“Everything she did, y’know, it was almost like some…really sick, desperate cry for help.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not really in a sympathetic _mood_ , Sam.” Dean muttered. “Marik’s still on my hit-list. Next time I see that bastard, I’ll tear him a new one so big he won’t be sittin’ down for the rest of his life. And don’t get me started on Isabelle. She tried to waste you and Bobby using my meat suit.” He paused, then laughed. “Guess she broke my track record. Thirty-one years without gettin’ possessed and I lose my virginity to some bloodthirsty whore who brainrapes me.”

“You need to be rehymenated again?” Sam asked, grinning and shaking his dark hair from his eyes. “We can always call Cass.”

“Eh. Can it, Sam.”  Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “I gotta say, y’know, hunters. We, uh, we don’t always do the right thing.”

“Like starting the Apocalypse?” Sam asked quietly. “Or how we couldn’t figure out that Rigel was Marik?”

“You kiddin’ me? Bobby was right, we couldn’t’ve known. Hidin’ it for fifty years? The guy was like a secret-identity boss.” Dean said frankly. “I mean, c’mon, Sam.” He squinted up at the sunlight spilling over the clouds overhead. “No, I mean like…regular jobs. Marik was a son of a bitch. He raped this chick and didn’t even lay her spirit to rest. He just kept toying with her for half a friggin’ century. How’s that _right_?”

Sam nodded slowly. “It’s not. Believe me, what Marik did was wrong and he deserves to be punished.” Sam stretched and shrugged. “It still doesn’t justify murdering  forty-nine innocent hunters.” He looked at Dean and added, “Almost fifty.”

“Yeah, well, I dunno about innocent, Sam.”

Sam squinted at him sideways. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“I dunno, somethin’ Isabelle kept dropping hints about. Like something’s goin’ on with hunters around here.” Dean shrugged, then clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Anyway. I’m back, you’re back, so let’s leave it at that, huh?”

They didn’t mention the wall that had been left to itself for the last few days, or the months Sam had spent soulless, or Dean having been possessed. They didn’t have to. It was enough to lean against the Impala and watch the bones burning themselves out, knowing Isabelle was finally at rest.

“Mom’s name was Mary.” Dean said suddenly, and he saw Sam’s baffled expression.

“Uh, _yeah_. Dean, you all right?”

“Me? I’m just _spectacu-lac-ular_.” Dean grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes. “All right, shut up.”

The flames finally died, choked by the sand. Dean scooped up as many of the charred remains as he could, Sam taking the rest, and they climbed up onto the bridge, followed the sidewalk that hugged the edge, and stopped in the middle, with the wide stretch of the bay on both sides beneath them. Arms braced out over the inlet, the bitter late-autumn wind tearing through their jackets, they let the ashes fly down into the shivering water and sink into nothing.

 “Bitch got one thing right.” Dean said, squinting sideways at Sam. “You and me? We’re the stuff they make legends out of.”

 

 


	12. Epilogue

_December 9 th, 2011_

_Super 8 Motel, Essex, Maryland_

 

“I dunno about you, Sam, but I can’t wait to get the hell outta this town.”

            Sam spat up a mouthful of toothpaste and looked at Dean’s reflection behind him in the bathroom mirror. “Yeah. Me too.”

            “Hunters bangin’ monsters, getting possessed, getting _shot_ …” Dean yanked the zipper of his duffle bag shut. “Had about enough of this crap.”

He vanished, but Sam could hear him throwing their gear into the other bag, muttering under his breath. Sam rinsed off his toothbrush, braced his hands on the sink and looked at his own reflection. He recognized everything: face, hair, eyes. But somewhere underneath all of that, there was something that reminded him of a street outside a club. It reminded him of watching for vampires.

            His gaze trailed to the bloody handprints on the wall.

            “Dean.” He capped his toothbrush and walked back out into the room. “Look, can we talk for a sec?”

            Dean turned to face him, hitching his bag up onto his shoulder. “This about to be another chick-flick moment?”

            “I’m serious.” Sam said, and he saw Dean sober up. “Okay. You and Cass warned me. And I’m trying to leave the wall alone. Really. I am.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “But I have nightmares. And the other day, when you went out for a drive—I scratched the wall. And I remembered something.”

            “What, from when you were soulless?”

            “No. I mean, yeah, well, kind of.” At Dean’s cock-eyed look, Sam sighed. “From when my soul was in hell.”

            “Son of a bitch, Sam.” Dean slid the duffle off of his shoulder and looked Sam up and down as though weighing what he was made of. “You wanna talk about it?”

            “Not really. But I think I should.”

            “And why’s that?”

            “Because it has to do with you.”

            Dean blinked, then shrugged and crossed his arms. “I’m all ears.”

            “I don’t know what’s going on.” Sam said, rubbing his hands together and meeting Dean’s eyes hollowly. “But I think you and Cass and Bobby might be in some kind of danger. You need to watch your backs.”

            “What, like danger from _Lucifer_? He’s gone, Sam. Whatever he told you in that cage, you know it was just…it’s what they do, right? We’re outside of fallen angel jurisdiction at this point.”

            “I’m not so sure.” Sam admitted. “I wish I could tell you more, but…I can’t.” He took a deep breath. “Not yet.”

            “Don’t even start with me, Sam.” Dean had his classic warning tone in play now. “You don’t touch that wall, you hear me?”

            “Dean, people could be in danger. People _I_ care about.” Sam protested. “What do you expect me to do, just leave that hanging over our heads?”

            “Exactly. You do what any normal, _sane_ human being without psychic powers would have to do. You tell yourself it’s just bad mojo or rotten breakfast, and then you bury it. You bury it so deep you can’t even _remember_ it anymore. And you survive.”

            “I survive.” Sam shook his head. “And everyone else has to fight this, whatever it is. Alone.”

            “If it comes down to that.”

            “Dean, that’s not how we work. All right? That’s not how you and I work.” Dean shot him a Don’t-Get-Mushy-On-Me look, but Sam persevered. “You watch my back. I watch yours. Bobby’s got both of ours, and Cass watches out for all three of us. None of us could do this without the other ones, right?

            “Exactly. That’s why we need you _alive_ , Sam.”

            “Dean. Scratching the wall didn’t kill me. That headache—it was like the ones I used to get before my visions. I can _handle_ it. What I can’t handle is knowing something’s coming after you and Bobby and Cass.”

            “Something.” Dean echoed. “Like that Rakshasa Bobby told me about?”

            “I dunno. Maybe.”

            “So we run.” Dean picked up his duffle bag again. “Awesome.”

            “We don’t know how to trap the Rakshasa yet. Until Bobby digs something up—”

            “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean muttered. “Meet you downstairs.” He shoved past Sam, heading for the door.

            “Yeah.” Sam said under his breath, cramming his toothbrush into his own bag.

            “Hey. Sam.” Dean stopped in the doorway and Sam glanced at him over one shoulder. Dean was drumming his fingertips agitatedly on the doorpost. “We all got our nightmares, all right? Fact is, the nightmare’s all around us. We just gotta keep fightin’ or go down swingin’.”

            Sam smiled slightly and dug into his pocket. “Marik found this back at the El-Rich.” He flicked the ring across the room and Dean caught it, studying it in the fluorescent light easing around the bathroom door.

            “Found my little breadcrumb, huh?”

            “At least a bird didn’t eat it.” Sam replied. “Why’d you leave it behind, anyway?”

            Dean held the ring up, then tucked it into a fist. “Thanks, Sam.”

            Sam gave him a slightly bewildered look, but let the subject drop. “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

            It was a few minutes before Sam made it downstairs, and found Dean on the phone already in the front seat of the Impala. Sam tossed his bag into the back and slid in beside his brother, giving him a What’s-Going-On? look. Dean motioned for quiet and pulled a pen out of the glove compartment.   

            “Where’d you say that was?” He started writing on the back of his hand, then paused. “Yeah, well, those sure aren’t the directions you gave us _last_ time, sweetheart.” He smirked, and then his expression switched to something more serious. “Okay. Tell me what you saw. _Exactly_ what you saw.”

            Sam’s phone vibrated against his thigh. He wrestled it out of his pocket and connected to the incoming call. “Hello?”

            “Sam, tell me you boys are outta town.”

            “Bobby?” Sam leaned forward in his seat. “No, we’re still at the motel.”

            “Ah, hell. You haven’t left yet? Case ended four days ago!”

            “Dean needed some down time.” Sam turned away toward the window. “Bobby, what’s wrong? You sound freaked out.”

            “Surprised you haven’t seen it already. Demonic omens goin’ off like fireworks all up and down highway corridors. In _your area_ , Sam.” Bobby’s voice crackled with an overwhelming static that nearly blotted out the end of his sentence.

            “Bobby?”

            “Listen to me, boy. Don’t take the Ninety-Five corridor out of there? You hear me? _Do not take that corridor_.”

            “Bob…Bobby!” Sam pulled the phone away from his ear; the call had dropped.

            “That was Nikki Walters.” Dean said, throwing the Impala so suddenly into reverse that Sam had to brace himself on the dashboard to keep his seat. “They got omens. Demonic omens, everywhere from Clarksville to Pittsburgh. Blackout in New York City, lightning storms, cattle dropping dead. You name it, they got it.”

            “Yeah, well, that was Bobby.” Sam put his phone away. “Says there’s omens _here_.”

            “Here. Like, here, here, or like Sioux Falls here?”

            “Here like _Essex_.”

            “The hell is goin’ on, Sam?” Dean looked up at the storm clouds rallying over the city. “I mean, we’ve seen demon stuff since we tossed Lucifer’s ass in the pit—hell, we’ve seen _Meg_. But this? This is apocalyptic, Devil’s Gate stuff.”

            “We need to get to New York.” Sam opened the atlas on his knees. “We can take the Eighty-Three up to Pennsylvania, connect with Seventy-Eight, merge onto Eighty-One and then take Eighty-Eight into New York.”

            “What’s with all these eights?” Dean muttered. A dazzle of lightning reflected off of the polished hood of the Impala, followed a minute later by a window-shuddering growl of thunder. “Good thing we took a couple days off, right? ’Bout to jump in feet first again.”

            “Demons.” Sam shrugged, folding the atlas and setting it aside. “Guess it’s kind of our specialty.”

            “Lucky for us.” Dean reached for the radio. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

            As if to punctuate the end of one case and the start of another, Motley Crue’s “Kickstart My Heart” blasted through the speakers, effectively ending the dry spell of horrendous music that they’d faced in Essex.

“Oh yeah!” Dean cranked it up and started head-banging, letting out all his tension, pounding his flat hands on the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat. Sam watched his brother for a second, and then, at Dean’s carefree, This-Song-Kicks-Ass  expression, he finally broke into laughter as they hit the Eighty-Three heading north toward New York.

“Sam. Dean.”

“ _Whoa_!” Dean’s foot came up off the gas by reflex and Sam grabbed the top of the door to brace himself as Dean struggled to get the car back under control. Dean cut a glare toward the figure reflected in the review mirror. “ _Dammit_ , Cass, don’t _do_ that!”

“I may…need some help.” Castiel said haltingly, and something in his tone made Sam’s guts knot together. He twisted around to look.

            Castiel was slumped against the door of the backseat, bowed head resting on the glass. He smelled like char and fire, and his hands, pressed against his abdomen, were glistening with blood.

            “Dean! Pull over!” Sam ordered.

            “No.” Castiel shook his head slightly. “Keep driving. You need to be…out of town. As far from here as you can get.”

            “Sam, get back there!” Dean poured on the gas. Sam threw off his seatbelt and piled over the back of the seat, and pulled Castiel up into a sitting position. The angel didn’t resist him; in fact he seemed too weak to move on his own.

            “What the hell happened?” Sam demanded.

            “I think our war…just became yours again.” Castiel’s head rolled to one side and Sam grabbed the side of his neck to steady him. “I’m sorry.”

            “This have to do with the omens?” Dean looked up into the rearview mirror, saw Castiel slumped over, Sam’s hands and his barely holding the host body together. “ _Cass_!”

            Castiel’s eyes slid open, so bright blue Sam wondered if they weren’t seeing a flicker of his true angelic nature beneath his vessel’s gaze. “We were ambushed. From both sides.” He looked up at Sam, breathing hard. Sam could feel heat like a fever radiating from the angel’s body. “There’s still time for both of you. Go underground. Go deep. Don’t let them find you.”

            Sam felt a bone-jarring vibration as Castiel tried to spirit himself away; nothing happened. He just leaned forward and spat up blood.

            “Did he just try to _phase out_ on us?” Dean demanded, meeting Sam’s frantic eyes in the mirror. Sam nodded helplessly. “Oh, hell no.” Dean’s gaze pinned back on the highway. “Now you listen to me, you son of a bitch. That’s not happenin’, understand? You don’t drop in with a warning and then just _leave_ so you can go die somewhere on your own.”

            “Dean.” Castiel said, his voice congested with blood.

            “Don’t ‘ _Dean_ ’ me, you self-righteous ass! This is family, all right? You, me, Sam, Bobby—we’re family. First thing about family, you don’t die on ’em without a fight! You go down swingin’ to the last breath, you make those bastards fight to kill you. Understand?”

            Castiel’s eyes slid shut again. “I understand.”

            “We need to get him to Bobby’s.” Sam said, grabbing Castiel’s arm this time to keep him steady as he coughed up another burst of dark blood. “His vessel needs as much help as the rest of him does.”

            Castiel shook his head. “You’re wasting your time.”

            “Yeah, we’ll see about that.” Dean muttered.

            “Dust In The Wind” started up on the radio. Castiel leaned his full weight against Sam, dripping blood from the corner of his mouth, slipping closer to death with every breath rasping out of his lungs.

            Hands tight on the steering wheel, Dean pushed the pedal to the floor as the lightning storm erupted around them.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _We the mortals touch the metals,_  
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,   
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,

 _and I was discovering, naming all the these things:  
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye."—_ Pablo Neruda

 

 

 


End file.
